Another Round
by abc79-de
Summary: Rogan. Future fic. There’s a new arrangement between the two. COMPLETE!
1. When She Goes Storming Out

Story: Another Round

Chapter Title: When She Goes Storming Out

Summary: Rogan. Future fic. There's a new arrangement between the two.

AN: Sorry it took me a while to get this started. It's been swimming around in my head, and my rule is, if it won't go away, get it out. So, here you are, yet another fic all started, to bring more Logan into your day. Reviews make me happy. Oh, and Story and Chapter Titles are lifted from the new Foo Fighters material from _In Your Honor_. Go get it if you don't already have it. It rocks.

He stared at her, this out of place creature, as if trying to place her back in the right context in his mind. She was the last person he'd expected to see here—she was always the last person he expected to see, though she held top priority in those he hoped to see. She was no longer a guest star in his dreams. She was his leading lady.

He knew very well that she hadn't seen him yet. If she had, she would have bolted from the dimly lit club as if on fire, becoming a mere mirage on his part. She liked to keep him contained, at her desire, forever upholding the childish notions of their youth. The ability to live without ties.

It used to be easy for him, effortless to turn things on and off, until she disrupted the flow of women that streamed through his bedroom door. She had once upon a time been one of his many—her telling him she didn't want to be labeled as such is something he still hears in the depths of his mind, tormenting him as he can still taste the remnants of her on his lips or the way his sheets still smell like her when he brings the next woman back to his apartment after a charity event.

He'd wanted to fight her on the issue when she stormed into his dorm room all those years ago, to tell her that she didn't have to be one of the many. She could be the only one that he allowed in his life, in his mind, in his heart. All she had to do was want that too. But she hadn't. She'd wanted to cut ties that were too constrictive, cutting too deeply into her flesh. She was already anticipating the scars. She wanted to start fresh with someone who would never put her through the embarrassment of seeing him with another woman.

He knew it was worse that she knew the other women didn't mean anything. He didn't have to hurt her like that. He just did. And just like that, he watched her leave, assured if not pleased with the outcome of her speech. Gone were the playful nights out, running around campus and kissing her against the stone walls and treating her to coffee. It was back to the faceless sea of the masses.

Her visits didn't start up again for about a month after her announcement that she couldn't be with him anymore. He knew when he saw the wild look in her eyes as she stood there, shivering on his doorstep, that nothing had changed. He knew she wouldn't be there when he woke up, he knew that he couldn't bring her coffee in the newsroom the next day or take her to a movie the following Friday. Her presence was about immediacy.

Comfort.

Something he'd been missing as well since their last meeting. His door had never been closed for her. He ushered her in, along with this new era of their relationship. This time, there were no words. She didn't want to hear them and he was afraid to speak them. He knew they'd come out wrong somehow—never enough, never what she needed. So they rendezvoused in silence, save for sweet moans he elicited from her throat and their out of breath panting in unison toward dawn.

She never came with enough frequency for him not to entertain the idea of finding her, but too often for him to actually break down and do so. It continued well after both had left the hallowed halls of Yale University. The day he moved off campus, out of the state, he assumed away from her immediate realm of instant self-gratification, it was bittersweet for him to wonder how easy he would be for her to replace. After all, he was just one step up from her being left to her own devices.

He'd pulled her to him with ferocity the first time he opened his penthouse door to find her waiting there, that look never wavering from her eyes. He held her tightly for a good minute, he swore she let him hold her just this once, until she playfully pushed him back over the threshold and took no time in finding his new bedroom.

He knew nothing of her life. Now, sitting here on this barstool on the opposite end of the counter from her as she nursed her own cocktail, he could only assume she too lived in New York.

It was her, there was no doubt. No one else had eyes with the ability to break his heart even without meeting them head on. A collision with her was always fatal. No one else would stare into a chocolate martini for ten minutes, bang their fist on the counter before taking one long, smooth drink, finishing it off in its entirety as if she were being forced to do so.

She was upset, that much was for sure. She held up her glass to signal her need for another round to the bartender, and he observed her, enraptured. Gone was the shitty day he'd had that had wound him up here, ready to drink for a while alone before meeting up with the rest of his life later this evening and playing the part that had been scripted for him. She was all he could see, and he remained silent in hopes that she might stay longer for him to pretend. Pretend she was a part of his everyday landscape. That she was here for him. That her frustration now would land her on the other side of his door later this evening.

He sometimes wondered if he was just a real life stress toy in her mind. Something she pulled out when life wasn't going her way. To remind her of some old lesson learned.

He only knew she hadn't sought him out this time. This was his chance for initiation.

He watched as she swallowed two more drinks, and on the next sweep of the bar, it was his turn to beckon the bartender, slipping him a fifty and specific instructions along with a scribbled upon napkin. The bored-looking man raised his eyebrow and nodded before moving off to fulfill his requests. Now, he would wait.

Her face always told a story, she was more expressive than most, and he watched her confusion build as the bartender slid the tall glass of water in front of her instead of her fourth painkiller. At her descent into protest, the other man held up his hand in surrender, informing her he was just the messenger. It was then he handed her the napkin.

Confusion melted away to show distress. Her eyes darted up from the napkin and all around the bar, scanning and searching. By the time her glance landed on his barstool, it was too late, he'd vacated for a closer view.

"It's an open offer, Ace," he said from behind her, his words deposited directly into her ear.

"What are you doing here? You live," she began as she swiveled around to face him, shaking her head in disbelief. He noted her hands were also trembling as she still held his soft note.

"I work downtown," he cut her off, not wanting to make her ask. He revealed nothing she couldn't have assumed on her own.

"Oh."

"I assume you won't tell me anything as to what brought you here?" he paused, her answer in her recast gaze, fixated now on the opening door to the establishment. "But will you turn down a warm cab ride and an even warmer bed?"

Head-on collision. She met his gaze and the stirrings of compliance were present. He saw the wild look, the need, the hurt, everything. It was all there.

She nodded, tucking his note in her purse as he threw money down to cover her tab. She walked quickly ahead of him, hailing the cab, not needing to turn around to know he was right behind her, ready to go another round without explanation.

It was the next morning, sunlight streaming through his window as he groped at his blaring alarm, that he found it. Laying where his misplaced dreams had positioned her sweet face was the bar napkin that he'd sent over to her the night prior.

_I think it's high time you slowed down and considered another kind of nightcap. As much as angry works for you, you need to find an outlet for all that aggression. Just a suggestion._

He saw new writing, in lipstick no less, just underneath his scrawl.

_Such truer words were never uttered._

He got the feeling she was writing him off, or trying to, once again. Sighing, he tossed the covers back and wondered how long he'd have to wait until the next time.


	2. I Run for Cover

Story: Another Round

Chapter Title: I Run for Cover

Summary: Rogan. Future fic. There's a new arrangement between the two.

Just three days had passed since he awoke to find the lipstick farewell on his pillow. The very same pillow that still smelled of her. He thought he was full on hallucinating when he found her standing on the other side of his door earlier, at the ready to leave the waiting world behind to join him for the evening.

She'd never visited with such frequency. Not since before . . . .

He reminded himself that he was sober and, last he knew, sane and ushered her into his home. She looked exactly the same, but yet completely different. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but tried not to dwell on this unknown as he was acutely aware that she would offer no details, and his not knowing what was going on with her would lead him to the same outcome as knowing. Alone in the early morning hours.

She made no haste; she seemed to be examining the contents of his front room, as if casing the place to take his stereo with her when she slipped out of bed, leaving him too exhausted to take notice or prohibit her. He smiled at the thought of her trying to be stealthy. She was a contradiction of grace: so aesthetic, a myriad of curves and lengths so artistically arranged; yet so unskilled in movement and flourishes.

He held his tongue, figuring that her methods would be revealed in good time. He hated the immediacy of his world and willed himself to slow down and just enjoy her floating amongst his belongings. Like she might crawl up onto the shelf and take up residence as a bookend at any moment.

Maybe he wasn't so sane anymore, after all.

He moved behind her as she examined his bookcases. He knew if he didn't divert her attention soon, she'd spend her whole time up reading cross-legged on his hardwood floor, not even bothering to move to the slight cushion of the Persian rug that stopped a couple of feet away from the wall. She would stay in reach of her precious books. His precious books.

Two hands landed on either side of her, resting lightly on the shelf at the height of her waist. She leant back into him, resting her weight fully into him. He could envision the closing of her eyes, and his heart swelled when he heard the soft contented sigh escape her throat.

This exercise was one from which he'd fallen out of practice. He hadn't had to coax her into his bedroom in years. Her insistence had become ferocious, growing in intensity with each subsequent visit. It was the only thing that made him believe that her visits weren't some kind of recurring dream. They were never exactly the same. He found that his body remembered how, without being told, just like riding a bike. He used one hand to put back the book she held in her hands, the other wrapping around and coming to rest on her stomach, slowly pulling her more firmly into him. She let go of the book with no resistance and put her hand on top of his. Her head leaned away from his lips, allowing his coaxing along her neck to be more effective. When he finally spun her around in his arms, she met his lips quickly.

He was sure this was so he could ask no questions. She knew she was behaving oddly. And she knew that he could tell. He swallowed his questions as he matched his tongue against hers. He promised himself that one of these days he'd get back at her for the lack of details by not opening his door for her, not giving in.

He'd been promising himself that for years.

The thought struck him suddenly that perhaps she had come more frequently than he realized. That just maybe she had found herself on his doorstep to an unanswered door while he was in Italy or Morocco or being forced into one of the society set-ups that his mother forced upon him in efforts to find him a suitable wife. He wondered if she just simply turned away and found some other outlet for her energy.

Oh, the questions he had for her.

Her fingernails scraped down his back underneath his untucked shirt, digging in harder as she pulled down and around his hips in search of his belt buckle. Her signature move. He knew what came next and decided for once he wasn't going to let her lead the whole scenario.

After all, he had needs, too.

Upon her beginning to back him toward his bedroom while her nimble fingers began unlatching his belt, he scooped her up and flung her over his shoulder, heading down the hall into the guest bathroom. After his locking the door and turning on the shower, she stood against the sink, her now swollen bottom lip stuck out for effect. He took notice of her as he moved slowly back in front of her.

She was intoxicating. Frustration and lust mixed up in her to coax out an insatiable beast. She didn't take not getting her way lightly. She was goal-oriented and driven. His mind drifted to that last time he failed to give her what she was looking for. He wouldn't let himself think that his having let her walk away was the exact reason that he'd let her do this her way all these years.

He'd done it her way long enough. She'd taken the no ties arrangement to an extreme. Not only were they not exclusive, she'd kept them nearly complete strangers save for their abilities to map out the others bodies blindfolded.

Once more, she would play by his rules or get out.

"Time to come clean, Ace. I suggest you strip down and get into the shower, or else I'm going to have to do this the hard way."

A look of indignance shot over her features. This clearly wasn't what she'd come for. "And what if I just leave instead?"

He shrugged, "Your call. But don't expect me to be there the next time."

She eyed him carefully, at first sure he didn't mean what he said. Her fingers toyed with the bottom button on her sweater. She bit the inside of her cheek and met his eyes through the steam that was building from the constant stream of hot water pounding against the bathtub.

"I can't tell you everything," she said finally.

He stepped forward and put his hands over hers, stilling her nervous fidgeting. "I'm just asking for a little more than nothing," he confessed as he continued to stare into her eyes. She gave a slight nod and he let go so she could pull her clothes off quickly, creating a pile with his before she returned to press her body into his, kissing him fervently as they stepped into the cascading water.

II

"I didn't mean for it to be like this," she said softly, just as he had fallen into the warm confines of fogginess that tingled over his body before he found sleep.

"Like what?" he had to force his tongue to form the words, they were thick and chalky as they passed through his lips. He slid a hand up into her hair so she would know he was giving her all his focus. "Rory?" he asked after her prolonged silence.

"I shouldn't even still be here, I should go," she kissed his temple softly.

"Not tonight. Stay," he commanded more than anything else and tightened the grip he had around her waist.

"I can't," she protested, running a friendly hand down his chest.

"Why?" his eyes now open again, catching her in a trap of his own.

"Because that's how it is."

"I can't do this," he groaned, burying his head into her breast. He felt two hands now, stroking through his hair, holding him to her. Comforting him.

"We have been for years. It's who we are," she said with great clarity, her words vaguely echoing her reason for sending them into the tailspin of their current, more ambiguous understanding. He didn't want to understand anymore. He didn't understand how she was okay with this.

"Are you in some kind of trouble?" he asked suddenly, moving his head to rest now on her shoulder as she looked down into his eyes.

"I'm," she paused, unable to lie to him, unable to give him more. "I'm figuring some things out."

"Meaning your visits will be more frequent in the foreseeable future?" he baited.

"Is that a problem?" Her confidence gave way to doubt in her eyes. She wasn't sure of his continued agreement to be there for her. To give her whatever it was she gained from her bouts of time spent in his bed.

His head was pounding with want and uneasiness. The scenarios for each answer couldn't play out in his head fast enough to make a rational decision. So he went with all that he was sure of. His gut feeling.

"No," he breathed.

"I'll stay, until you're asleep," she consented, brushing her lips over his gently. "I promise."

He knew she was appeasing him, though he hoped that somehow it was what she wanted despite whatever obligations she might have. Early meetings, a troubled roommate, someone else waiting for her at home . . . no, that couldn't be the case. She wasn't the type to be with him like this, for all this time, when there was someone else in the picture. He had wondered over the years how it was possible that she'd found no one else to give her what she wanted. A boyfriend. A one and only.

But her visits to him, though infrequent, were steady. There were never long periods of time when she didn't appear. Unless she had gone through a string of one month or less relationships.

That would be a lot of idiotic men. Men that would let her go. Just like he had.

So he'd never questioned it. She was still seeking him out, and he was willing to be sought after by her. He knew the day would come that something better came along in her life and he would be forgotten. Each time treated as if it might be the last. His own revolving door had slowed to a near halt save for her—not that he was monastic by any means, but he was simply growing up. He was too busy, he had too many demands on his time. Not to mention he trusted fewer people now that he was in charge of his own estate. He wasn't dumb enough to fork over half of his family's fortune for one night of distraction.

"You always do," he whispered, catching her lips against his once more, not pleading with her, but sealing her promise. Perhaps asking for a bit more. If not for her warm body to be the first thing he became conscious of in the morning, at the very least for her to return again in a timely manner. Not to be scared of this new development.

Talking.

He shuddered at how simplistic it was. Parents don't have to wait so long to hear their own children utter their first words as he'd gone without hearing her speak a full sentence. Their only vocalizations in the last few years had been animalistic, as their control left them. Soft moans, encouragement, desires. Far cries from the once combative and electric debates they used to have before they fell into bed.

He knew one thing for sure. He knew her fight was still in her somewhere. He just wasn't quite sure what it was that she was fighting.


	3. Rolling Like Thunderclouds

Story: Another Round

Chapter Title: Rolling Like Thunderclouds

Summary: Rogan. Future fic. There's a new arrangement between the two.

He found his job to be a daily monotony of tasks, rarely did anything peak his interest. But every once in a while, he was called on to go into negotiations, where his true abilities shined. Almost as if he were able for the duration to be let out of his cage and stretch his muscles to show his prowess. A showcase for his true worthiness of his inheritance.

The Huntzberger Corporation had just acquired one of the hottest new rising papers in Manhattan. It was a two-man start-up operation that grew quickly out of their abilities to oversee. Circulation had gone up fifty-fold in the last two weeks alone, and they began to struggle to the point of sinking with their own output. Logan having the sharp eye he did, stepped in quickly to acquire the politically driven publication, promising to keep the entire staff on.

There was just one hitch this time. Their star feature writer was leaving, effective at the turn over date. It was considered bad timing, and furthermore he knew that the writing of L.L. March was what had exploded this paper's popularity over the last few months. Even he read it daily himself and had been blown away at the insights and thought-provoking writing style this March had.

He stepped off the elevator and straightened his tie as he walked up to the receptionist's desk in search of meeting with this journalist and doing what he did best—negotiating in the best interest of everyone involved. He'd heard no rumblings of March taking another job elsewhere, and this person would have to be insane to be walking away from their career at a time like this. They were just about to find themselves soaring.

This would be easy.

The secretary even looked flustered with the increased number of calls and foot traffic through the office. He smiled kindly, almost hating to be burdening the poor woman, but reminding himself that thanks to him this woman's load would soon be lightened and her salary tripled.

She did her duty in announcing him over the interoffice line and pointing him back into the depths of the newsroom. He nodded his leave and turned on his heel, hands in his pockets until he suddenly could envision his father's image imposed over his own, the silhouettes nearly a perfect line over each other. He withdrew his hands and frowned. He was his own man. He didn't set out to be imposing. He set out to be effective.

He saw no names on any desk, or people at any either. They were all milling about, wildly like chickens missing their heads; carrying stacks of papers, barking into cell phones, and searching through filing cabinets. Ah, the joys of the newsroom. He was at once struck with why he never had an urge to be a reporter himself.

"Excuse me," he nudged one of the harried, who looked at him with annoyance. He smiled.

"Logan Huntzberger," he offered.

He was used to the reaction. Instant humbling on the verge of groveling.

"Oh, sorry, Sir, I was just, uh, er, what can I do for you, Sir?"

"Well, you can stop calling me Sir, and point me in the direction of L.L. March," he requested.

"Of course," the selected informant peered around the office. "Hey, Gilmore!" he called before pointing Logan over to the back corner.

Logan's eyes snapped up to follow this gesture. "Did you say Gilmore?" he leaned in to his guide.

"Yeah, March is her married name, but everyone around here was just too used to calling her by her original name," the information flowed off his tongue as if it were common knowledge. Something a boss should know. Nothing earth shattering.

Funny how his earth seemed to be completely cracked and disjointed, split through his core, at that moment.

"You need anything else, S—", he paused, "er, Mr. Huntzberger?"

Clearly this person was too polite to wave his hand wildly in front of his dazed face or to slap him back into reality. He wished instead that he were standing here with Finn or Colin, someone who would have done something drastic like that—someone not afraid of his name when it came to pulling his head out of his ass.

"No, thank you. You've been quite helpful. Carry on," he added, unsure really if his own feet would carry him over to the woman who was staring at him with just as much shock and displacement as she remained still over an opened file cabinet that looked ready to expel its brimming contents onto her shoes. They must have looked like two deer, caught in the sight of one another.

He wondered if there was a way in which to best play this. He reminded himself that he was here to do what was best for his company, for this paper, and what he had originally assumed was best for this writer. But now he just had more questions.

"L.L. March?" he extended his hand to her as finally closed the gap between them.

She nodded. He should have known words wouldn't have been very forthcoming.

"Logan Huntzberger. I, uh, I'm not sure if you knew or not, but I've just acquired this paper, and I was wondering if I could have a moment of your time?" he played the game, held up the pretenses. It'd been too long since they'd been together in public for anything else.

She looked about, as if for the nearest exit. He did the same, looking for a door with a lock on it. He pointed to the nearest one he saw, and tilted his head toward it.

"It won't take long, I promise."

She nodded again, and he motioned for her to take the lead, clenching his left hand tightly in efforts not to ease it onto the small of her back as he followed close behind her. She turned to face him, her face already flaming from the deep blush that began somewhere underneath the collar of her shirt. He knew from experience that it began just above the swell of her breasts, right over her sternum, fanning out over her neck and up to the tips of her ears. He locked the door securely and leaned against the door, feeling suddenly out of breath.

"You can't leave the paper."

She crossed her arms, and he saw the glint of a large diamond catch the normally unflattering fluorescent lighting. Unflattering to perhaps everyone but her. It seemed to instead outline her, like an aura.

"Too late. I've already resigned."

"But, why?"

She raised an eyebrow. She owed him no explanations, just like in his bedroom, she thought.

"You don't get to play your game here, Rory, now I'm the boss. Your boss. I won't accept your walking away from what might be the best launching ground for your career so you can go off and do," he stopped, even his hand pausing on its journey through his hair. "What is it you're leaving to do?"

She bit her lip, but didn't meet his eyes. "Family obligations."

"You're not--," he stopped himself. Her eyes snapped up to meet his, and she shook her head. The uncertainty that would be brought forth with her being pregnant halted his words.

"No."

"March?"

She nodded again.

"How long," his words came hard from lack of breath. He felt like the man that had pointed her out to him had kicked him in the stomach. "When?"

"About a year ago." Her head was adjusted to rest perfectly aligned on her spine, her ponytail swaying back and forth from the regal pose it'd been forced into.

"I feel like I should congratulate you," he held up both hands in utter confusion.

"It's your prerogative, I suppose," she said sharply.

"Rory, I," he began, but he had no words. "I can't talk about this here, like this, but we," he pointed between them, "We have to. Talk."

"About my leaving?" she asked purposefully. "You can't talk me out of leaving, Logan, I don't exactly have a choice in the matter."

"So, you don't want to leave?"

Her eyes were pleading with him. He normally relented when she used this tact—however now was not the time for him to fold easily to her discomfort.

"Answer me."

"You said it yourself. This would be the launching pad of my career. The whole reason I was allowed to be here was it was underground, tiny, no attention around it. But now, it would--," she sighed, giving up as she had when she typed up her resignation letter.

Someone knocked on the door, and he wondered if it was the inhabitant of this closet of an office. He called that it would be just a moment and stepped closer to this woman in front of him.

"Come to my apartment tonight."

"Logan, I can't," she closed her eyes, but didn't move as he inched closer, his hands now on her elbows.

"Either you're coming to me, or so help me, I'm coming to you," his lowered voice akin to a growl as his eyes flashed at her. His hands were pulling her into him. "We're not done talking."

"I can't work that way, this has to wait until the next time I can make it to your apartment. Not tonight. We can't talk like this," her head craned toward the door.

"There are things I need to know now," he insisted.

A look of sadness—not regret or remorse, but true melancholy—came over her face. It filled her eyes until he was sure it would spill out over her cheeks. His fascination now that somehow she kept it at bay.

"There's nothing I can tell you now that will put your mind at ease or change anything that has happened," she shivered in his arms, her crossed arms the only thing between them.

"You can tell me why, all this time," his voice broke. Another knock came to the door.

Her arms uncrossed in the enclosed space, and she ran her fingertips lightly over his suit-covered chest. His eyes drew shut as she began tracing, creating, allowing each of them a tactile memory of this moment.

"It always seemed, when I was with you, every time I'm near you, that I'm so close to greatness, but I can't ever really touch it. I guess I've always kept hoping one day I might reach it."

The need to kiss her was overwhelming, but he could do nothing to draw attention to their appearances once they left this enclosure. He saw her lips tremble with the same want.

"Tonight," he kept hold of her, willing her to agree before he relented to let go of her.

"Soon," she promised instead, leaning up to press her cheek into his. "Soon," she whispered again.

Within the blink of an eye she was gone through the now unlocked door, the man that had helped him earlier coming through it in her place. Logan stood still in the middle of the small room, not having moved a muscle save for prying his hands off of her skin.

"Oh, Mr. Huntzberger, I'm sorry for rushing you. I assume you were trying to get Gilmore to stay on?" he assumed as he sat on the edge of his desk.

Logan nodded, clearing his throat as if he could rid himself of the feeling the news that had been unfurled for him today. Too much and not enough.

"Not like everyone else hasn't tried to talk her out of it. I'm sure you gave it your best shot, but she's quite set in her decision. Damn shame."

"Yes," Logan finally looked up into the man's eyes. Into the beginnings of crow's feet and worry lines from working too long for too little pay emerging across his forehead. "Damn shame."


	4. Hanging Above Her

Story: Another Round

Chapter Title: Hanging Above Her

Summary: Rogan. Future fic. There's a new arrangement between the two.

Four days had passed. He'd had no other business to conduct at the offices of her paper and couldn't bring himself to inject warning signs of his furthered presence floating around her life. He had no idea of her situation or what a co-worker innocently mentioning his repeated visits to her at her place of employment might do to her home life. Did her husband visit her at work? Was he supportive of her writing or the reason behind her sudden departure?

Groaning at the barrage of questions that he couldn't seem to stop forming from the depths of his mind, he turned the last lock and let himself into his empty apartment. He put everything back in its place—his jacket, his briefcase, his keys—wondering why he even bothered with the maid service that his mother had arranged for him when he moved in. The place was barely lived in, in no need of reorder—except after her visits. And frankly, he would rather keep the sheets strewn out across the bedroom floor, her lipstick on the rim of the coffee mug she always used, and the scent of her perfume on the pillow next to his own.

He always found it quite disheartening to come home the next evening to find no trace of her. Like she failed to exist. A ghost from the life he should have seized.

He moved to relock his series of deadbolts and noticed the envelope taped there. An envelope had been taped to the inside of his door, his name scrawled out with care in feminine handwriting. In her perfected script. He tore it off the surface and looked around the main room. Still no other trace of her.

He hooked his index finger under the corner of the fold, and ripped along the top, revealing the contents. A business card, with writing on the back. He ran his thumb over the raised, embossed lettering on the front. It was for a bed and breakfast in Rhode Island, some quaint little place, he was sure, but his confusion wasn't assuaged. Turning it over, he read her small print that said simply, "I'll be by later."

He tossed the note onto the side table next to his couch and kept on walking, off to prepare himself for her visit. It was past five o'clock, though at this point he didn't care what time it was. He needed a drink.

By the time he'd finished his third whiskey on the rocks, he heard her knock on his door. He paused, wondering if he didn't open the door if she would just use whatever methods that made her able to leave the envelope for him. When she knocked again, louder and somehow sounding more urgent, he moved to let her in.

"Guess I'm driving," she motioned to the glass that was filled now with only slightly discolored ice. He'd never noticed how the whiskey left its mark on the remaining cubes before.

"We're going somewhere?" he frowned, shutting the door behind her.

"I thought I made that obvious," she stopped short of his main room, remaining in the foyer instead.

He let out a laugh, longer and heartier than he'd realized was aching to come out. He pointed his glass at her, the ice rattling about as his hand gestured. "You, my dear, have made things, my entire life, in fact, about as clear as mud."

She rolled her eyes. "Looks like I will have to drive. But we have to take your car."

"Where the hell are we going?"

"Rhode Island. For a couple of days. If you're available, that is," she looked up at him, after having rifled through the bag that was slung over her shoulder. She handed him a slip of paper.

"This looks like a receipt."

"It is. I booked us a room, until Sunday. We should get going, soon."

"Rory," he let the paper fall from his hands and reached out for her arm. "How the hell did you get in here?"

"You just let me in," she said slowly, and he saw her eyes drift again to his glass. He slammed it down on the table next to him, and grabbed hold of her other arm with his chilled hand.

"Earlier. I came home, and you'd taped a note to the inside of my door. What, are you leaving journalism to pursue your career as a cat burglar?"

He knew she could practically taste the whiskey on his breath, as he held her close to him; probably too firmly, as he could feel his fingers digging into her upper arms. He slackened his grip a bit, causing the alarm on her face to decrease.

"Your doorman lets me in."

"Excuse me?"

She looked down, perhaps considering whether or not she wanted to divulge this bit of information, but it didn't take her long to decide she had no choice now. "Sometimes, I come here, only you're not around. So, I just go to the doorman, who recognizes me; he's even seen me come to you so often, and he just assumed I was your girlfriend, and naturally that I have a key of my own. I went and told him I'd forgotten my key, and he let me in."

"You've done this before?"

She met his eyes and nodded. "Just a few times. I don't do anything, really. I stay as long as I can, waiting for you, mainly. I read, sometimes I lie down on your bed, take a nap, and when you don't come back, I lock up and leave the key back with the doorman."

"My very own Goldilocks," he shook his head.

"My hair is brown," she whispered and leaned closer to him.

"I know," he ran a hand through it, letting the silky soft strands fall out of his grasp. He leaned in to give her a true taste of the alcohol that had coated his tongue, trying to rid his senses of anything but her.

Her eyes remained closed when he pulled away, and his instinct was to kiss her again, but she spoke instead. "We really should get going," her eyes fluttered open.

"Why can't we stay here?"

"I'll explain once we get there," she promised.

He nodded and stepped away from her, promising to be back as soon as he'd gathered a few things. He stood in front of the mirror in the bathroom, having thrown basic toiletries into a bag, and wondered what the hell he was doing. He'd gone rounds with himself about even letting her across the entry into his apartment again, now that he knew of her state of matrimony. Before, she'd kept it from him, he wasn't in the wrong. But now, now it was a different story. He cycled from that self-righteous plateau to the midnight depths of waking up in the middle of the night, needing to feel her in his arms, swearing that he was going to find her as soon as the sun came up. But now she was waiting on him, and he told himself he had to go, if nothing else just to find out a few answers.

II

He sat in the passenger seat, sunglasses covering his eyes from the setting sun, watching as she navigated them out of New York in his car. He realized he'd never seen her drive, even in college. Everything had been in walking distance, or he'd done the gentlemanly thing and driven them off campus himself.

"So, tell me something," he began slowly.

She turned down the radio and paused, obviously waiting for him to continue. She was making no promises, only the effort to decide whether or not she would answer.

"If you know I'm not home, why do you wait around?"

"I don't come to you just to see you," she said cryptically.

"Look, Rory, I think at this point we're past you being able to talk in circles. Why do you come see me?"

"I come to get away from my life. I," she took a breath of courage, "I always have."

"I don't get it."

"I don't suppose you would."

"What's so bad about your life?"

"I'm lonely."

"Is this your way of telling me your husband doesn't fulfill your needs?"

She said nothing, and for a moment he felt bad for being such an ass. He lowered his glasses to look at her properly and reached his hand out to slide it up her thigh comfortingly.

"If it's that bad, why don't you just leave? I mean, it's not like you couldn't support yourself, you're an amazing writer."

She smiled sadly. "Thanks."

"Have there been others?"

She turned her head to face him, her eyebrows knit together in confusion. "Others?"

"Men, I mean, you've always been so consistent in seeing me. Were you serious about anyone else before your husband?"

She shook her head. "No."

"Why didn't you stop coming to see me, after you met him?"

"The thought never even occurred to me."

"That doesn't sound like you," he ventured, his voice softening.

She pulled the car into the parking lot before answering him. She turned in the seat after shutting off the ignition and put her hand on his that still rested on her leg.

"Would you have wanted me to stop coming?"

"I would have wanted you to be happy," he narrowed his eyes, hoping to get her to tell him what that entailed.

"We should get inside."

"Are you happy?" he held tight to her hand, willing her to just stay in the car long enough to answer him.

"Sometimes. I'll have just fallen to sleep, with your arms around me and for a moment, before my brain catches up with me, all I'm aware of is being near you. For a second I don't have to slip out and get home, or worry about the fact that I can't come back for another however many days. I'm happy then."

His heart literally ached in that moment. She was coming to him for a reason. No matter that she wasn't admitting it to herself, she wanted to be with him. She was living in misery, how ever she'd fallen into this life with this other man, and was on the verge of giving up her dreams. He got the feeling she was giving herself one last refuge, this weekend.

"Let's get inside, it looks like it's about to start pouring," he squeezed her hand before letting go altogether and grabbing their bags from the back. They ran for the safety of the covered porch as the clouds that had crowded the night sky began to spit its heavy contents onto the pavement below.


	5. Ring In The Witching Hour

Story: Another Round

Chapter Title: Ring In The Witching Hour

Summary: Rogan. Future fic. There's a new arrangement between the two.

AN: Note Rating Change. I guess that's what happens when I exile the two characters in a room with a bed for a weekend, lol. Thanks for the reviews. I love feedback.

The water was hitting the window in driving sheets, dancing across it in a wave-like pattern. It was comforting, the constant rhythmic Doppler effect of the lashing water across the glass. Comfort seemed to be his main goal and he wished he could name as many facts as he knew to be true about the woman changing out of her soaking wet clothes in the bathroom as there were droplets clinging to the pane in between the next round that would sweep them away, bringing more desperate refugees.

But he couldn't. He knew intimate things, pieces of information that do him no good other than in his dreams. He knew that she couldn't fall to sleep unless something was trapped between her arms, preferably one of his. He knew the way her voice changed as he pushed her from feeling his touch to exploding beneath it. He knows what she wants from the varied state of undress she presents herself to him in.

He hated knowing that if he turned around right now, having heard the bathroom door creak open, that he knew best how to work her into mindless pleasure. So he stayed put, watching another cascade of water hit the glass in front of him.

She wasn't dissuaded; she stepped gingerly across the old wooden floor, finding the unstable boards with the easy give that the owners would no doubt wait as long as humanly possible to replace. Things of this nature were considered historic and rustic in this area of the country, charming. Things his mother would call broken or consider to be a nuisance. He immediately knew it was one of the things that Rory loved about the place. He was sure she'd been here before and had her reasons for dragging him along with her now. His eyes closed as her hands slid up under his arms and her palms came to rest over his chest. He tried to shut out her touch and the sound of the rain as they mixed up in his mind to fuel the natural longing he held for her.

It all just reminded him that now he couldn't have her. She was never really his, after all.

"Logan," she stood up on tiptoe to whisper in his ear. "Come to bed," she urged, pulling him back as she stumbled backward with his reluctant weight. He couldn't help but turn on instinct to catch her in his arms and lead her the rest of the way to the bed. His hands sought out the soft cotton covering her torso, taking in the camisole and simple lace bikini bottoms that she'd chosen for this interlude.

She wanted him to undress her.

He set out on his course, his hand grazing over her body inch by inch, laying her down carefully in efforts to make her feel every last drag and pull of his fingers against her skin. Her eyes fluttered shut as he began, already relishing the break from her reality. Like nothing had changed.

The rain beat harder, constantly now, alerting them to the fact the winds had changed and were now directing all the torrents sidelong into the westward facing windows. With no lights turned on in the room, the grayness that overtook even the twilight filled their room. His heart was beating in his throat as he could tell even in the shadow-cast room that his fingers were now on the border of flesh and lace, the softness of her skin continuing on underneath the intricate, scratchy cloth that passed for a cover.

He couldn't bear to watch his own actions, but still he brushed his fingertips up along the hem, slightly edging, teasing her. He placed hesitant kisses just south of his ministrations, showering her inner thigh with nips and anticipatory affection. Her hand came down softly over his, stopping his progress.

"You're trembling," she breathed.

"I," he opened his eyes, pleading with her to drop this subject if she wished him to be able to continue. "It's different."

"It's just me," she smiled up at him from her reclined position. She gave his fingers a squeeze, and brought them back to rest over their prior destination, pressing firmly, sinking him softly into her skin. "I'm still . . . Nothing's changed."

He dug his fingers through the thin cloth, into her skin, trying to grasp hold of her words, wishing they were true. "Everything's changed," he sighed, letting his head fall to rest on her stomach. She let go of his hand to run her fingers through his hair, still slightly damp from their run into the bed and breakfast, though the opening skies. "You brought me here to say goodbye, didn't you?"

"What do you want me to do, Logan? Just disappear without a trace, no warning? I thought it would be better this way."

"Is this some sort of game to you? Suddenly you've done with me, so it's a weekend of fucking and then you can leave with a clear conscious?"

"That's not fair! Do you know what I had to do to get away like this? What I'm risking just being here with you? This isn't a game to me, Logan, you know that. You know I can't control this. It has to end now, I can't have you."

She had moved up away from him, her arms wrapped protectively around her knees, leaving him staring at her curled up form. He scooted up on the bed, the only noise coming from the soft squeak of an old mattress spring and the unrelenting sheets of rain that continued to be released over the building. He pressed his lips into her bare shoulder and rested his chin there for a moment before speaking.

"You could have."

Her eyes widened at his admission, and her extreme proximity caused her lips to brush over his nose as she turned to face him. "But you said, I mean, you weren't looking for something, and you didn't want that."

"Then tell me how I found it anyhow. The only reason I let you leave that day was because you seemed too hurt already for us to be able to start over, I knew it was already marred by you seeing me with other girls. I thought you deserved to be with someone that you could trust, completely. I thought you wanted to just cut it clean."

She started to cry then, silently at first, building up to soft whimpers, and he held her to him, unsure as to what exactly she was crying for. For her leaving, for knowing the visits had to cease, for the loss of her career, because the rain was coaxing it out of her. He had too many other questions he wanted answers to, so he just held her. He brushed his lips across her hair, whispering softly.

"I wanted you. I wanted just you."

More sobs came forth from her, but she no longer sounded like they were choking the life out of her. The flow of her tears were subsiding, no longer matching the heated pace of the outside rain. He still didn't know if he was comforting her or pouring salt over ripped open wounds.

"What about now?" she managed, looking up at him through glassy eyes.

"Do you want to stop seeing me?" his tone was determined as he brushed back the hair that had naturally fallen forward into her face from her balled up position, sticking to the salty tears that had been streaming down her cheeks, like the raindrops that adhered and rolled against their window.

"No, but," she swallowed.

"I don't want to stop seeing you. I don't know all that's going on with you, but I know that things can't keep going like this."

"So, what do we do?"

He remained calm in his tone, soothing, holding her against him. "I need you to tell me what your life is like. All I know is you're leaving the best job you've ever had and you're married. I want to help you, Rory, I do, but I need information if we're going to figure out how to keep you on at the paper and find a way to be together."

"What about you?"

His lips, still trembling, but now at the knowledge that she might not be writing him off, found her shoulder again as his finger slid underneath the strap of her thin top, slipping it down off her arm. He moved his lips in one fluid motion up her neck, skimming and attending. As if action would cover his trepidation.

"What about me?"

He heard her give a sigh of contentment; he was finally giving her what she wanted. Perhaps what she needed. His pressure got firmer at that thought racing through his mind.

"What do you want? Is this about wanting to be with me, or protecting your financial investments?"

Her words grew weaker, as she already knew the answer to that question. He knew she had to ask. Technically she knew nothing about him, how he conducted his business or any of his affairs, save for anonymity and discretion with his lovers. He took her face in his hands, reveling in her complete presence, here with him now.

"I want you. All of you."

He saw another tear escape, but if she noticed its presence, she didn't show it as she pressed her lips into his, grasping his hands that cupped her face with hers, holding them locked in this position of desperation in their haven from the storms of their lives. Each professing the truth at long last, but knowing it was too soon to make promises, they allowed themselves to fall under the spell that each put on the other. He mesmerized her with his body, shedding her anxieties with the clothes he removed slowly from her while they fell into rhythm with the cadence of the downpour that he willed to wash away all of his.

For now he had what he wanted, come what may.


	6. Spells That I'm Singing

Story: Another Round

Chapter Title: Spells That I'm Singing

Summary: Rogan. Future fic. There's a new arrangement between the two.

AN: This fic got neglected because of louder voices from other fics. But I drown them out today, and was finally able to focus. Hope you all enjoy. Thanks for all the great reviews you guys have been leaving.

* * *

Sleep wouldn't claim him, though this was the first occasion since their initial meeting that he was guaranteed to find her in his arms when the sun came up. No matter if it remained obscured by clouds or not, as the rainfall continued even now into the hours between midnight and dawn, the sun would always rise.

He wondered if she had fallen to sleep, but couldn't bring himself to ask her, taking the risk of waking her. She'd claimed his chest as her pillow at some point after their love making. He could finally call it making love as of this evening. He'd taken his time, and she'd not rushed him, exhorting him into making it something else. Something that was dictated by urging and needing—a release of sorts. He would have been unable to give her that now, after all he now knew. If he'd just been a source of servicing, then he would have walked out of this secluded room and left her to find a replacement. Because that's what he would have become: replaceable.

No, tonight was different, because of the light shed on her circumstances. She wanted to be with him. They'd taken their time in showing reverence for the other. He conveyed his willingness to know her better than even she knew herself, and she let him have access to every last part of her. With the understanding that he wouldn't just accept her clamming up and disappearing after tonight. And that included her falling asleep and waking up in his bed.

Listening to her even breath, he decided she must be asleep, probably out of sheer exhaustion. He could tell yesterday when she arrived at his door, as her just-kept-together appearance allowed the haggardness to show through. He sighed, running his fingers lightly over her hair as it splayed out, falling down his ribcage and barely touching the mattress below.

"I like it when you do that," she said softly, startling him.

"You're awake?"

"I never fell asleep," she informed him. "I was almost there, concentrating on the sound of your heart beat, but then you started tickling my hair against my neck," she gave a soft breathy noise, "And humming."

"I didn't mean to keep you awake," he assured her, kissing her temple.

She propped her chin up on his shoulder, her blue eyes completely focused on his.

"I don't know where to start."

He nodded. After holding so much in for so long, often times it seems impossible to convey the whole of the message and do it justice. "The beginning might work. Like why you came back to me after you called everything off back at Yale."

She fell into her pondering, and he could tell she was trying to put herself right back in that moment of standing on his doorstep, looking so full she might burst at the seams. To that time, he'd never seen such desperation in her, but it would come to be a standard in his life.

"The first time, it was right after a date, a really, really, bad date," she smiled about it now, her then frustration evidently giving way to the humor of the situation after all these years. "I'd let my grandmother set me up, she thought that I needed more of a push into the society set. No one knew about you and me, I never said anything to my family about our arrangement, no one would have . . . ."

"Understood?" he supplied.

"Approved. You were right, I was a girlfriend girl, at least that's what everyone had wanted me to be. So much so that that's what I had become, I suppose. No matter how many wrong turns I made, I wanted so much for someone to look at me like you had, but also to know that I was the only one they would ever look at like that."

"I'm so sorry, I should have--," he began, but she put her hand up to his lips.

"No, you don't have to," she smiled sadly. "I thought since I had experienced what I wanted in parts, that it would just take more searching to find the whole thing in one person. Like, with Dean, I knew it could have lasted forever, but there wasn't that spark. He didn't make me feel like I could conquer the whole world, but I knew my heart was safe with him. And you, you were like a crate of fireworks, but I never knew when you might just be done with it all, you know?"

He nodded, only able to hold her as she began her tale.

"So, I agreed to go out on casual dates, this time promising myself to keep them casual. No sex until I found someone that it really meant something with. I'd tried not to let myself believe that it'd meant something with you, because I knew that it was skewed."

"Skewed?"

"When we were, together," she hesitated, trying to find the best words, "You were the only guy I was with. And I know that wasn't the case for you. So, my perception of the situation was elevated in a way, you know? You were special in my life, because you were fulfilling a major need in my life. But you, you had any number of places to turn to find the same thing."

If he'd ever felt like a heel in his life, it was surpassed at this moment. He no longer felt worthy of holding her in his arms or deserving of her recanting of her life story. He began to feel like the jackass that drove her into the misery she was encountering in her life.

"But after a while, of not having anyone to turn to for that kind of satisfaction," she bit her lip, "And not finding anyone else that really made me want, well, that first time I was sort of on auto-pilot, looking for relief."

He nodded, remembering how she'd thrown him off-guard with her assertiveness. Not that he'd exactly call it mechanistic, but the first time they'd been together that night (of many, he recalled), it'd been like a speed race to the finish; her winning, coming just as he held on barely by a thread from her actions.

"Since no one knew that we'd broken our arrangement off, no one knew I wasn't up to dating, so I just kept it to myself and felt that I had to go out on all the set-ups and ask outs that I received then, almost to cover up the indiscretions I felt I'd allowed myself with you."

"I was playing a role more than ever of the good, dependable, amiable girl that my family wanted me to be, trying to fit into the world that my grandparents seemed more and more insistent that I fall into, but I kept allowing myself those meetings with you as sort of a reward for my good behavior. Like I needed an outlet. And you never turned me away, I figured you would never mind one more among the many."

"Rory," he held one hand out to her cheek. "You really felt that way?"

She nodded, hindsight having made its way into her thought processes long before now, but too late to have affected where her life had suddenly dropped her.

"I didn't meet him, not right away. Not for about a year. You were just getting ready to graduate, in fact, when we had our first date."

He knew she had switched into the most taboo of topics for most adulterous affairs. The spouse. The victim in the game of pleasure that they themselves had given no consideration to, largely because of Logan's lack of knowledge as to this man's very existence. And if she'd been bothered by her own cheating, she'd shown no outright signs of it during their encounters. Her behavior, as odd as it was to begin with, had never altered.

"I only felt bad for coming to you twice after meeting him, but I could never seem to get myself to stop. I had a million justifications. When we started dating, he was so insistent that we take things slow. I'd made references to being a little gun shy of jumping into major commitments, but he told me he really cared for me and he wanted to take everything one step at a time. I thought it was really refreshing and sweet, but at the same time I felt like I needed to take the edge off, you know?"

"But you were falling in love with him?"

"I thought I was, for a while," she looked down. "But I had this nagging feeling in the back of my head, which I now know I should have listened to. I thought it was just guilt, or self-doubt."

A soft lyrical interruption came from the midst of her overnight bag. She sat up, trying to locate a clock and jumped out of bed when she realized the odd hour. Rifling through her belongings, she pulled her cell phone out and flipped it open.

"Hello?"

There was an eerie silence in the room as he tried to read her body language. She stood with one arm wrapped around her bare waist; she'd not even taken the sheet along to cover herself with.

"But is he okay?"

He heard the fear in her voice, and he now moved to the edge of the bed so he could touch her, and let her know that whatever was occurring on the other end of that phone connection that she was safe. He wrapped his arms around her waist, burying his face into her back.

"No, of course. I understand. I'll see you soon."

As soon as she flipped her phone shut, he could feel her whole body shaking. He stood up to stand in front of her, all of the past falling away as she needed him in the present.

"What happened?"

"It's Grandpa, he's in the hospital again," she was attempting to compose herself, but he could see the tears starting to fall down her cheeks. He held her against him, trying to think of the fastest way to get her to him.

"Where is he? Hartford?"

She nodded into him, letting out a sound that seemed to be in the affirmative.

"Get dressed, let's go."

She pulled back, shaking her head. "No, you can't be there," she looked panicked at the very idea.

"Because of . . . ." he nodded in realization. Of course. She had someone to be there for her.

"No, actually, he's um, indisposed this weekend. But it's my family, there's no reason for you to be there," she rambled. "I can't explain why you'd be there."

"I'm still taking you there. I'll drop you off and wait nearby, the cafeteria, a hotel, whatever. I want to be where you can find me if you need me."

"But you don't have to," the tears kept coming at an increasingly steady rate.

"Just say you don't want me there, and I'll call you a driver and leave you be," he held her tightly.

"We should get dressed," she tightened her own grip around his shoulders, letting her face snuggle into his neck, leaving it warm and damp from her concern for her grandfather.

--&--

He loaded the bags into the car and came back to check them out as she made a final sweep of the room and came down, looking at him for reassurance before heading out to the car. The desk clerk read off his total, and he pulled out his wallet, deciding that cash was probably the smartest choice for this transaction.

"Is your wife okay?"

He looked up suddenly, his answer already formed on his lips, taking him off-guard. "She will be."

He thanked the man and went out to take her to the one place he knew she belonged. Grateful that she wanted him to be there for her.


	7. Rain Come and Drown Me Out

Story: Another Round

Chapter Title: Rain Come and Drown Me Out

Summary: Rogan. Future fic. There's a new arrangement between the two.

He held in his hands a Styrofoam cup filled with something that only vaguely resembled coffee. He was sure that hospitals served the mildest form of the commonplace drink, so as not to upset timid stomachs of the inhabitants further. He wondered what the overworked doctors and nurses relied on; figuring the weak, coffee-flavored water that he'd been trying to choke down wouldn't help them in the least.

He knew it wasn't what she'd be needing when she finally came down to him. He thought about seeking out a Starbucks, or at the very least a nurses' lounge that was sure to lead him to something drinkable, but here he'd remained, rooted to the uncomfortable plastic chair in the corner of the cafeteria, waiting. Waiting for her, not wanting her to feel abandoned.

He'd made her take a moment to collect herself before leaving the confines of the car early this morning. It might have been the last time he'd get to hold her hand, to offer support, to be her rock, for any amount of time. He wanted to throw all convention away and walk her up, his arm around her waist for support, being there for her to rest her weary head against, to be there just in case. In case of what, he didn't know, he couldn't bring himself to think in terms of the worst-case scenario. He knew she wouldn't want him to. But he couldn't let her just march up there as she was; shaking and frightened.

Holding her hand, he'd looked her straight in the eyes and told her it would all be okay. This had happened before, and her grandfather had been fine, right? He told her to take it one step at a time, all she had to do was go into the hospital and take it from there. She'd nodded, trying to convince herself as well, and he'd at last pulled her in for a kiss of reassurance and told her where he'd be waiting for her. That he wouldn't go anywhere without her notification to do so.

And somehow he'd managed to let her walk away from him, seemingly alone in this world. He knew the feeling, too well at times.

When she finally reappeared before him, she looked drawn and her lack of sleep was highlighted by the dried tears that streaked her face. She slumped into the seat next to him and leaned her head on his shoulder. She moved her hand to encase the glass that sat more or less untouched by him, and he leaned his mouth down to speak softly to her.

"You really don't want that."

Nodding, she took his word as gospel and the tears began to fall against his jacket. His eyes closed, blocking any reality out as he wrapped both arms around her, letting her cry. He wasn't here to ask questions.

He felt her move slightly under his embrace, to wipe a few stray tears away, despite the redundancy of the act, and she let out a sigh.

"Can we go somewhere?"

"Name it."

"I don't know, anywhere with drinkable coffee," she suggested.

"I thought you might say that," he was sure the smile was apparent in his voice, as she remained with her head tucked safely under his. "Are you sure it's okay to leave?"

She nodded as she sat up, looking at him gratefully. "Grandma's asleep on a cot that she demanded be brought into his private ICU room, and Mom's asleep in the waiting room. I told them I needed to get some air."

"Let's go," he stood up and pulled her to her feet, letting her use him as a crutch all the way to his car.

--&--

She was on her second cup of coffee before she said anything, save for small apologies for his inconvenience, the disruption of their weekend, her inability to stop the intermittent bouts of tears. He continued to silence her, putting his hand up, on her knee, finally taking her hand in his and bringing it to his lips.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"He's lapsed into a coma," she swallowed back the lump that formed in her throat at the very notion. "From lack of oxygen, during the 'episode,'" she spat the last word out. "I don't know why they insist on calling it an episode, it was a heart attack. This isn't like the others," she looked at him imploringly.

"Does it happen often?"

She shook her head. "Just twice. Once, when I was in high school, the other right after I graduated from college. At the party they were throwing for me, in fact."

He nodded, letting her continue.

"I just, I guess you're never really prepared for stuff like this, huh?"

"No, you're not," he agreed, not wanting to run in with his own similar experience from the recent passing of his own grandfather. He wondered if she knew anyhow, as she kept track of all the journalism bigwigs, or if she tried to distance herself from him in all other aspects of her life, save for her sexual fulfillment. He pushed the thought from his mind, knowing she didn't need blame or bitterness from him, not now.

"He didn't want me to get married, you know," she confessed, her voice lowering to show the secretive nature of the very conversation.

"Your grandfather?"

She nodded. "He's always been a big supporter of my education and aspirations. He and Grandma have saved every article I've ever written, including all the ones from Chilton," she smiled. "They have quite an extensive collection of scrapbooks."

He gave a soft chuckle. His own father would have killed to be able to make so many showcases of his son's journalistic achievements. He'd just never been one to inspire a trophy case or proud boasting at business and social functions. Not that they weren't one in the same for his father.

"Grandma was the one that really pushed the marriage. And maybe if I'd listened to Grandpa, then I wouldn't be in such a mess," she ran her hand through her slightly matted hair.

"Why didn't you?" he couldn't help himself. He had to know more.

"I … it was all planned, you know, and I'd accepted it as what was going to happen. I really thought he'd sort of let me do my own thing and really only pull me out for special occasions. I had everything else I needed."

She sounded like every other society wife he'd ever known, the way they describe their lives; the loneliness, the isolation, the sporadic necessity to pull themselves together to put on a painted face. Only he knew that she'd just wanted to be left to travel the world, working most of the time—free not to worry about pay, but to chase her dream. All she'd wanted in a partner after accepting that true love might not be in the cards for her. Just to let her be.

"Shouldn't he be here, not me?"

She gave him a soft, sad smile. "He's in Aruba. He said not to disturb him unless his money was stolen," she seemed to glower at remembering his words. "It's all he cares about really, his money and his status."

"Doesn't sound like your kind of guy," he pointed out the obvious.

"He's a really good liar," she took the last sip of coffee in her cup. "It's sort of like an art form for him, I think he would liken it to acting. He had me completely fooled for a while, and by the time I had him figured out, it was too late. Too much premarital paperwork had signed my life away in contractual obligations."

"Meaning?"

She sighed and placed her empty paper cup on the table. She pressed her lips together and gritted her teeth. "Meaning, I'm legally obligated to stop working now that he's about to begin his political campaign. I'm not free to leave him until I've produced an heir, and we have to produce a child to pass his family fortune down to by the time we've been married five years, or he gets none of his inheritance."

"Wait, you're free to leave him after you give him a child?" Logan's mind could easily wrap around such an insane deal—the society life was full of eccentric contingencies to keep the blue-blood lines propagating. It was her having agreed to such a deal that he was having a little trouble swallowing.

"Yes."

"But, what about what you want?"

"Logan," she shook her head, not wanting him to get into this here, now, under these circumstances.

"He should be here with you, if he's so hell-bent on upholding pretenses," he spat out.

"I don't want him here! I want you here," she spoke the last part softly, as she could see her first outburst had drawn several looks from other patrons. Luckily they were in a part of town that no one should know her, or him, or think twice of seeing the two of them together. Still, she knew Hartford wasn't the safest place to be seen with Logan of all people. Or anyone except her husband for that matter. It was amazing how fast word got around, as the older society women served as spies on such matters. They were everywhere, always looking for something to talk about at the next function.

"We should go, I should get back. I can get a ride home later, if you want to go," she conceded to having told him too much at this juncture; ready to understand if he needed to flee.

"I'm going to drop you off at the hospital and get a hotel room near by. Here's the number to my driver, call it when you're ready to come to the hotel."

"But, you don't have to," she started, but sighed with weariness as she could see his protest ready on his face. "Thank you."

He watched her tuck the business card into her clutch purse and sit back against the back of her chair. He wanted to tell her to come have a rest at the hotel for a while, to just get some rest before heading back to what she might face at the hospital, to just let herself recharge in a positive environment for awhile, but he knew she would do no such thing. She would go where she thought her place was, no matter the cost to her well-being.

"You ready?"

She nodded, standing up and following him to where he held the door open for her, ushering her through, placing her in his car; doing all he possibly could to make things easier for her. Even if he was only allowed to do small things, behind the scenes. He could only hope that it was the small things that would make all the difference.


	8. Sinking Deep Alone

Story: Another Round

Chapter Title: Sinking Deep Alone

Summary: Rogan. Future fic. There's a new arrangement between the two.

AN: I didn't mean to go this long between updates. I've been thinking of snippets of this for the last week. Finally got some writing time. Hopefully work will calm down after everyone gets back from their vacations and I'll drop back down in hours. And the increase in my mental capacity will occur, as well. I've been wiped. But I got it out, and straight to you! Thanks for everyone for the lovely reviews.

* * *

He sat with the contents of his pockets laid out before him on the bedside table. He'd kicked off his shoes before he sat on the bed, intending to recline back and rest on top of the comforter, but that was over a half hour earlier. Now he sat just staring out the window, wondering if she was really going to come.

He had a sinking feeling that she wouldn't. That she would take her mother's offering to stay with her in the small hamlet she grew up in, leaving him in Hartford with nothing more then his foolish hope of her return. That she needed him.

He groaned as he finally lifted his feet up onto the bed, using his elbow to block what was left of the sun out of his eyes. It would be dark in another couple of hours, and he wanted her here with him before nightfall. To know she wouldn't run into another means of comfort. That the jackass of a husband she had wouldn't suddenly come to his senses and be at her side. That she wouldn't decide that her family home was the more respectful place for her to wait for news of change.

He couldn't help but realize he was waiting for news of change as well.

His phone rang, the soft classical chords striking up, and he reached out for it immediately, even though he realized she didn't have this number.

"Hello?" he asked wearily.

"Where the hell are you?" came the demanding voice on the other end.

"I had a situation out of town," he replied simply.

"I've been trying to track you down all day, Logan, you're the head of this company, and I need to be able to reach you at all times. You can't just go out of town without telling anyone. Your secretary didn't know where you were, your doorman—how long will you be out of town?"

"I don't know, Dad, as long as it takes."

"Where the hell are you?" he demanded again.

"It's not important. What do you need?"

"I need you to get to Hartford tonight, that's what I need."

"Hartford? Why?" he sat up, thankful for the unknown location aspect of cell phones.

"You know, your position as head of the company isn't purely business, Logan. I know you'd like to pretend that all you have to do is keep the money out of the red, but you have social obligations as well, and if you'd bothered to let anyone know that you were going off for a joyride to the unknown, you would know by now that one of this family's dear friends and oldest associates is in the hospital, clinging to life."

Richard. His dad knew about Richard. Of course his mother had heard about it, most likely from Emily. He really hadn't thought this out. His parents had been close to her grandparents long before he'd even met Rory, they'd known nothing of their relationship, and nothing had changed as far as they were concerned.

"What happened?"

"Richard Gilmore had a heart attack, he's in Hartford Memorial, and your mother is a mess. She wants to be there for Emily, but she's in no state to be alone. I need you to go and sit with her."

"Where are you?" his mind scanned the realities of what his father was asking. He was to sit here and wait, as needed—what if he missed her at the hospital? He had no way of getting a message to her. They'd been very careful to not give much contact information over the years. She knew only where he lived, and now he knew where she worked; at least until the end of the month.

"I'm in California on business. I can't very well fly out until tomorrow morning. It has to be you."

Logan let out a sigh, knowing that arguing this with his father was of no use. This was his primary obligation—to his family. As he had no young family of his own, his obligation was first and foremost to his parents, no matter how he felt about Rory. He couldn't stand up in front of anyone to profess his feelings for her, so he had no way of changing those facts. He had to go.

"I'll be there within the hour," he promised, leaving his father wondering how he could make such a statement, wondering more about his whereabouts, but never able to figure out the real truth. No one would believe the image of him sitting in his socks on a hotel bed, pining for some girl that might never come. No one.

--&--

His mother was a wreck. He wasn't sure if it was the knowledge that one of her good friends was in pain, or the idea that these were the kinds of health issues that were now plaguing their friends—meaning they weren't far behind. He slipped an arm around his mother's frail shoulders and squeezed lightly.

"I'm so glad you were able to come. I hate to think of Emily sitting all alone in that hospital. You know she and her daughter aren't very close, and that's the only real family they have nearby," she sniffled.

"Is that so? Seems a shame," he offered, trying to keep himself out of the conversation. He knew more than anything that Rory held her grandparents in the highest esteem. And that she'd mentioned her mother's presence at the hospital, however reluctant it might be.

"It is. They did everything for that girl, and she turned her back on them. They barely got to know their granddaughter. I don't think you ever got to meet her, did you? Rory Gilmore? Oh, now, that isn't her name anymore, she got married. March, Lorelai March, she goes by now."

"Doesn't sound familiar," he replied honestly. Lorelai March was a complete and total stranger to him. He would have never picked that name out as friend or foe if presented in front of him. He held in his stomach, as he could feel it tightening, and he willed himself to just focus on helping his mother into the car and tried not to think of what was waiting for him at the hospital.

--&--

She'd been trying not to cry. He could see the build up in her eyes, the shiny veneer that covered and held loosely like a losing grip onto the pain underneath it. She sat holding her grandmother's hand as they continued to look at Richard's immobile form in front of them. He felt his mother's body move away from his steady arm, as she rushed to her friend's side.

"Emily! I came as soon as I could!"

"Oh, Shira, I just, I …." the older woman stood up and embraced his mother, and he pried his eyes off of them and allowed his gaze to move back to the woman who sat so stoically, gripping tightly to the bars of the hospital bed.

She was studying him, trying to figure out silently why he was here—if he could wait no more, if he was here out of obligation to his family or to her—it was clear she was mulling over many scenarios.

"Mom, the nurses wanted to let you know that it's two at a time," an older looking version of Rory stuck her head into the room, and Emily nodded.

"We should go, wait somewhere else," Shira apologized.

"No," Rory stood up on shaky legs. "I've been in here all day, I'll go out with Mom, you just got here, you stay."

Logan noted her tone, knowing he should step in and say something, but his voice seemed caught in his throat. He cleared his throat, and stepped forward. "I'll just wait with …?" he trailed off, to indicate the lack of proper introductions.

"Oh, where is my mind at?" Emily's hand flew to her heart. "Of course, Rory, this is Shira Huntzberger and her son, Logan. Shira, Logan, this is my granddaughter, Rory and her mother, Lorelai," she hurriedly pointed and nodded. Lorelai and Rory gave curt smiles, and murmurs of 'nice to meet you' were exchanged.

"So, shall we?" Logan offered his arm that had steadied his mother out to Rory. Being a gentleman was always acceptable. Especially in the absence of other men. He could see the relief in her eyes as she moved toward him. Whether she was grateful to be near him or away from the unending reminder of her sadness, he wasn't sure. He paused when her gait halted, and she turned to her grandmother.

"Come get us, for anything, okay?"

"I will, dear. I will."

Lorelai had moved out ahead of them, and as soon as the door shut behind him, he pulled her aside.

"How are you?"

"I'm sorry, for not being able to get away yet," she swallowed.

"Shh, no, don't worry about that. My dad called, to inform me of Richard's poor health, insisted I come and sit with my mother."

"Oh. Right," she closed her eyes. A sinking feeling washed over him, as he realized he'd just confirmed that he'd come for reasons other than her.

"I can still go back to the hotel, in fact, I should, after I drop my mother off at home later," he held tightly to her elbow. It was their only point of contact, but their stance could only be seen as intimate. Both were turned in toward the other, all angles of their bodies bent in to be as close to the other as possible. It wasn't enough.

"I don't know, if it's such a good idea," she whispered.

"You need me with you," he reminded.

"It'll spark questions."

"So what? Can you say that you're going to sleep at all tonight if I'm not there, with my arms wrapped around you? If you wake up alone, only sheets wrapped around your legs? When you realize that you can't even call me to hear my voice because you can't bring yourself to ask for my phone number?"

"Stop it," she warned, her eyes closing again.

"Rory," he urged softly.

"We can't do this here," she opened her eyes again. "If you're mad at me, for everything else, fine, but you can't do this here, now, not like this."

"I'm not mad; I just want to be there for you."

"I'm not saying I don't want to be with you," she whimpered softly, edging too close to resting her head into his shoulder. It might look like she's just a distraught family member in the ICU to anyone passing by.

"I'm not the kind of guy that sits back and lets life happen to him, or worse, pass him by. I can't just sit around and watch you living like this."

"What does that mean?" she asked frantically.

"As long as this is what it is, as long as you need convincing that you deserve better than what you have, as long as you want to be with me like I want to be with you, I'm going to be around. Showing you what it should be like. Showing you what I can give you."

"Logan," she paused. They both looked up when they heard her mother call for her from down the hall. "I need to get in there."

"I'm right here, Rory. I'm not going anywhere."

"I just, I can't make any promises yet."

He nodded and pressed his lips into her forehead quickly. "I know. Let's go."

With that, he escorted her, holding her up as the exhaustion of the emotional day had taken its toll on her. He would pull on his deepest reserves if need be, as frazzled as he was wearing himself, to be there for her. He watched as she sat next to her mother, and he took his place alone across from her, remaining even as they fell asleep against one another, waiting for his mother to return. In his place.


	9. We Could Just Lay Around

Story: Another Round

Chapter Title: We Could Just Lay Around

Summary: Rogan. Future fic. There's a new arrangement between the two.

There seemed to be no moisture in his mouth. He attempted to rewet the interior with his tongue, waking him up enough to realize he'd actually fallen asleep. Pain shot up the right side of his neck, and the sounds of two women talking softly near him filled his ears. He opened his eyes to see Lorelai stand up from the couch opposite the one he'd fallen asleep on, and she pointed her finger at him.

"Should I make it three?" she asked, her tone increasing now that she could speak at a decibel that wasn't in danger of disturbing his rest.

"Three?" his voice came out much raspier than he'd ever heard it.

"Coffee?" she inquired again, evidently realizing he hadn't been coherent in the sleepy fog that he was drifting out of.

"Uh, sure, I can," he started to lift his torso off the back of the cushion, making his gentlemanly attempt to provide for the grieving women, but Lorelai held her hand up before patting his shoulder.

"I got it. I'll be back," she nodded, letting her legs stretch out after the unknown time that had passed while they all reclined in the waiting room couches. Rory was curled up with her feet folded under her, her head resting on the crook of her elbow that was draped over the back of the couch. She was watching him intently now as her mother's back disappeared into the hallway.

"How you holding up?" he blinked more sleep out of his eyes that were still trying to bring her form into focus in front of him.

"I'm tired," she shrugged. "You sleep with your mouth open," she said, almost playfully. He didn't understand the shift in her mood, but he didn't feel compelled to question her on it. Perhaps she'd found a comfortable position to sleep in on these rock-like couches.

"Now that's something I've never heard anyone say," he sat up straighter, pulling his shirt back around his body, from where it had wrapped around him at an odd angle while he rested.

"You've just never had anyone in bed with you in the morning to tell you," she nodded, taking some of the blame for her accusation. "Guess I'm the first."

"Is that a direct inquiry?" he raised an eyebrow, realizing in his still groggy state that she was delving into his personal information.

"Just an assumption. Unless there have been others for you," she asked, not raising her head off her arm.

"No. Nothing more than a fleeting night here or there. With the exception of one, that is," he kept his eyes on her as he took of his jacket, balled it up, and placed it at the end of the couch to lie back against as a pillow. Not exactly five star accommodations, but he had slept on worse. For starters, this couch without the added cushion of his own clothing.

"Sounds serious," she yawned.

"Playing games now, are we?" he allowed his heavy eyelids to flutter shut, but no way was he giving up this conversation.

"Just curious, I guess. You've never offered any information before."

"You've never asked."

She was silent at that, and he watched as her own eyelids shut. He had no idea of the time, or how long he would be sanctioned to stay at her side—as long as it took his father to get the jet ready and relieve his post. He had no idea if his mother was still in with Emily, or if she'd come back to the waiting room at some point. He was just glad for the moments alone with the woman he was truly here to support.

"Can one of you help me with this?" came Lorelai's voice from the hall, and Logan gave Rory one last look before standing upright, a bit dizzy at first from the sudden displacement of blood, and moved to take some items out of Lorelai's arms before she lost her grip on all the sustenance she's procured. It looked like she'd selected one of every type of vending product, along with a trio of coffee cups; which he could only guess was as bad as the attempt he'd made in finding coffee earlier. He made no reference to it; he simply took what she had no grasp on and followed her into the waiting room.

"Hun, you hungry?"

"Not really, I'll try the coffee, though," she said as she caught Logan's eye. He widened his eyes and grimaced, giving a slight shake of his head, and she withdrew her hand. "On second thought, I think I'll just wait. I could use some sleep," she covered.

"I don't know how you can wait, even if it's bad, it's better than," she took a sip, grimacing immediately.

Rory looked up from her again seated position. "Bad?"

"Oh, yeah. Remember Max's attempts?"

"Eesh!" Rory also grimaced. "Just trash it, and sit down. It's nearly six; they should be coming in with an update soon, right?"

"Six?" Logan checked his watch, blinking the sleep out of his eyes. He had to check in with the office, if nothing else. It was a daily requirement, and if he didn't do it now, he might get caught up in the ongoing drama that was unfolding here. "Do you ladies mind if I step out to make a call?"

Lorelai shook her head wordlessly, and Rory looked at him with interest.

"It's work, if my mom comes back, just tell her I'll be right back," he instructed, leaving the women alone as he stepped out into the hall. He dialed the number and waited for his secretary to answer. He asked for his appointments, ready to mentally prepare what he could put off, for how long, and what reasons she'd need to cite when rearranging each appointment. He was surprised to find that he only had one standing engagement, a conference call set for one o'clock. With L. L. March.

She asked twice before he found his voice to assure her that he didn't need her to reschedule, he'd fit it in himself, but told her not to make any more appointments that day. He hung up the phone and paused outside the door to the waiting room. He heard what sounded like agitation in their voices and listened before entering.

"I don't care what he said, Rory, he's your husband. You have a family crisis, that means he gets here. No matter what. He's supposed to be here for you."

"Mom, just back off, okay? It's not as simple as you think it is," Rory sighed, clearly not willing to discuss the matter any further.

"I will not back off. You know I don't like this, any of this, I just don't see why you got so sucked into this mess. Did you even call him to tell him about Dad?"

"No, I didn't, because there wasn't a point. He can't do anything from where he is, and he can't come back until next week."

"Can't or won't?"

When Rory didn't answer for an elongated beat, he made a show of sliding his cell phone back into his pants and reentering the room. "Did anyone bring news?" he asked, sitting back down across from the women. Both had their arms folded over their chests, both looked flushed from the recent disagreement. Both shook their heads.

"So, are there more people we should be expecting today?" he asked, looking to both of them unwittingly.

"I'm sorry?" Lorelai asked.

"More people, close family, husbands, other children?" he suggested.

"Just us," Lorelai assured him.

"I'm sorry, I just thought I remembered my mother saying something about one of you being married," he looked to Rory. She narrowed her eyes, starting to get where he was going, clearly not liking the fact that he would be so bold.

"I'm not married, but Rory is," she glanced at her daughter, whose pose hadn't altered, save for the way her eyes were glued to Logan.

"Oh, you're married, how wonderful. Where is he?"

"On business," Rory lied.

"He's not coming? Surely he can get out of business for a serious family emergency. I mean, even I cleared my schedule to be here, for my mother's sake, of course," he added.

"What do you do, Logan?" Lorelai asked politely, continuing the conversation as there wasn't much else to do.

"I run a media company."

"Television?" she inquired.

"Print," he shot back.

Lorelai looked to Rory, who was clearly growing more uncomfortable. He knew her mind was on his having said he cleared his schedule. He hadn't made that appointment, so she must have.

"So, you own newspapers?" she said with realization.

"That's the family business," he nodded. "Of course, my father was more of a journalist, I'm better at the acquisitions and business end. Keeping better qualified journalists on staff and all that. For instance, we just acquired a very promising little paper, underground, large liberal following, it could do great things," he began to explain, having her nodding along in understanding. "And normally all I have to do is sign some papers, show up at some meetings, and make sure it's all kosher, but this one presents a problem. The whole reason for acquisition has now decided to jump ship."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning the only reason that people read that paper will no longer be a feature, and the whole deal might fall through. Pity, too, lots of perfectly qualified people will be without a job, looking for jobs beneath their experience level, if they're lucky."

"Seems a shame," Rory piped up. "Can't you just replace the person that's leaving?"

"I don't think a suitable replacement exists, no," he shook his head. He knew the tension was palpable in front of her mother, but he didn't care. He'd warned her, and his breaking point had long since been breeched. If she could schedule meetings, he could discuss business to keep the mood off of the man lying in the hospital bed.

"Logan?" his mother's voice came from the doorway. "Oh, good, you're still here. Lorelai, Emily asked for you to come," Shira relayed the message. Lorelai let out an almost inaudible sigh, but rose and left the room promptly. Shira didn't come in, but lingered in the doorway.

"I'm just going to freshen up and try your father again," she informed him. He was up in a heartbeat, knowing that exchange had bought them a good ten minutes of time alone. He sat down next to her, wrapped his arm around her shoulders and closed his eyes as he buried his face in her hair.

"What was that about?" she pushed him away, but just a matter of inches.

"You scheduled an appointment with me," he gazed into her eyes. "You wanted to see me."

"I wanted to make sure," she began. "I just wanted to get a few things straight. I made it last night, before you came."

He nodded. "I'm not leaving your side. Now, tomorrow, next week, you have me when you need me. You don't have to make appointments."

"We can't be doing this," she swallowed back a lump that had welled in her throat. "I'll try to come to the hotel room tonight, if you can stay."

"You really didn't call him?" he couldn't help himself. She drew back again, her eyes wide with recognition that he'd been eavesdropping on earlier conversations.

"What does it matter?" she posed the question, wanting to be aloof, but he closed the gap between them and pressed his lips into hers. He slid his hands up to her face, cradling her head in his hands like he'd done so many times before. Her indignance melted under his touch, and she returned the affection, kissing him in kind.

"I'll have to go, when my father, comes," he instructed her on what would happen soon, what he was powerless to stop, in between tender kisses and gentle stoking of her cheeks, wiping away the tears that were falling out of relief and terror all at the same time, "but I'm going to be waiting for you."

"What if I can't get away?" she searched his eyes, needing a contingency plan. She wasn't used to flying without a net.

"Take this," he slipped his phone out of his pocket and into her hand. "Only answer if it comes up unavailable."

"I really do want to talk, to tell you all the things," she began, catching her breath as they paused to cement the promises with more silent words, found only in each other's eyes.

"I know," he nodded, kissing her forehead once more. He stood up, longing to stay at her side, his eyes fixed on her disheveled form on the makeshift bed.

"Rory! He's awake," Lorelai's frame burst into the room, taking in the scene that remained. Both the occupants were intent on one another, locked in some silent conversation, and Rory looked both relieved and more troubled at the same time as when she'd left minutes before.

"Can we?" she questioned, slipping her shoes back on as she rushed the door.

"Yes, go, I'll be right there," she promised, calling after her before turning to Logan. He knew that look in her eyes. It was one evidently Rory had learned from watching her over the years, he supposed. Funny how he'd known her so long and never been able to decipher simple things like origins of her habits and whom she got her eyes from before. Lorelai seemed to have it all in spades.

"We need to talk," she informed him, shutting the door to the waiting room, enclosing them inside.


	10. Stare at the Ceiling

Story: Another Round

Chapter Title: Stare at the Ceiling

Summary: Rogan. Future fic. There's a new arrangement between the two.

He could feel his heartbeat increase, just like it used to when his father had caught him in the midst of some scheme or breaking some rule when he was a little boy; the familiar heat in his palms, the whirlwind of logical excuses and explanations making him dizzy. He watched as Lorelai, the namesake and life-giver of the woman he loved, leaned the brunt of her weight against the closed door and eyed him knowingly.

"So, Logan," she began.

"Look, Lorelai," he raised his eyes up to meet hers, despite his slightly lowered head. He could feel his hesitant breath as it hit the back of his teeth. It was all that was coming up into his mouth, as words completely escaped him.

"You know, I thought your name sounded really familiar when Mom told me you were on your way," she held up her hand to prohibit him from attempting to interrupt her again. "But it wasn't until I saw the way my daughter looked at you when you arrived that I put two and two together."

All at once, the thoughts that might have formed into explanations and assurances left his mind, traveling south with all the blood in his brain. A rush that intense had to have been visible externally—surely she had just witnessed the first occasion on which he had gone stark white in the face.

"Two and two?" he asked diffidently, frowning out of sheer confusion, not just trying to play it up. Whatever she'd decided in her mind was going on was obviously fully formed. At least he knew where Rory got that particular habit from. Her ability to drive her heels in once she had the 'assumed' truth in her head was astounding.

"She's leaving her job, isn't she?" the tears welled up in her eyes as she questioned him, and he realized she wasn't blocking the door so much as allowing it to hold her up. Weren't there men in their lives that were willing to be pillars of strength in hard life moments like this? He wondered if Lorelai had a man that was longing to be in her life like he was hoping to be in Rory's.

"I mean, you're obviously acquiring her company, that's why she's been so off-kilter since you showed up. I haven't seen her this jumpy, well, in a long time; since she was in college."

He couldn't lie to her; especially when telling her the truth about her daughter would not out his own adulterous activities in her life. Perhaps he could use an ally, one that could help convince her to stay on at the paper, thus making it easier to persuade her to leave her current life behind and give him the shot he was prepared to take.

"I did," he let out a breath, feeling his body regulate as his assessment of the situation was finally able to register with his nervous system.

"I knew it, I knew she was hiding more than she was telling me," she mumbled under her breath.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to get into family business," he took a step closer to her, his hand outstretched toward her.

"No, no," she shook her head, wiping away non-existent tears from her eyes. "I know that you don't know Rory," she took a deep breath, "but surely you know that she can't give up her dreams. She's too good, right? I mean, otherwise you wouldn't have said those things," she probed.

"I've never encountered anyone with her abilities," he agreed, keeping the explanation vague on purpose.

"This is all because of him. I knew I should have pressed her harder not to get married, but there's only so much a mother can say," she began to confide in him. "You have to convince her to stay."

"I'm trying, believe me," he assured her. "She's fairly set in her decision."

"It is not her decision," Lorelai bit back. "Sorry, I don't mean to be so—it's not directed at you."

"It's okay, it's clear you're upset. I didn't mean to," he began.

"I'm glad you were here. You have got to help me," she reached out and grabbed his warm hand, the one he could still practically feel the indentations that had formed when he'd wound Rory's hair around his fingers tightly just moments before. "Please, say you won't stop until she agrees to keep her job. If she loses that, she won't ever leave," she confided in him.

"What if she doesn't want to leave?" he asked softly, the idea occurring to him as if for the first time. She'd been so willing to be with him, never offering admissions of love for her husband, never making it sound like she would stay if she didn't have to.

Lorelai's face contorted painfully. "Do you know him?"

"No," he admitted, shaking his head.

"Well, let's just say the adage 'she could do better' is the understatement of the century. He doesn't deserve her," she shook her head and took a deep breath. "I should get out there. Isn't there anything you can do, cite contractual obligations or some other legal mumbo-jumbo, to get her to stay on, even if just a while more?"

He smiled at her choice of wording, even though the words contractual obligation just made him think of Rory's predicament with her husband. Did Lorelai know all the paperwork that bound her daughter to this man? Surely not, if she thought there were outs to be had. At least, easy ones.

"I'll talk to my lawyers; see what I can come up with. You should go, be with your father. My own should be here soon, I'll be back on my way to New York," he lied, though the idea of having time to himself to let new information sink in long enough to figure out the best way to forge ahead was appealing. He would not leave Rory.

Lorelai nodded and let go of his hand. "Thank you," she whispered before opening the door, leaving him alone again, waiting.

XXXX

His eyes followed the decorative line of the crown molding, though he had to keep blinking when his eyes blurred the handcrafted lines out of focus in attempt to bring back clarity. No matter how hard he tried to focus, his eyes kept failing him.

He'd heard tell of the universe speaking to you at first in a whisper when you had a lesson to learn. If you ignore it, supposedly it tries a normal tone of voice. If you turn your ear even upon its yelling, it invites calamity and disaster, until you finally learn your lesson. He just didn't know if this was the whispering or the calamity. He pondered if a whisper could be disastrous.

"Logan?" she asked softly, afraid of waking him.

As his heart broke at the sound of her voice, he knew.

"I'm awake," he sat up, blinking his eyes a few more times so as not to view her in the blurry, half-sedated state. He didn't want to mistake this for a dream.

"I know it's late. I stayed 'til he fell asleep again," she said, kicking off her shoes as she crawled up next to him on the bed. She situated herself so that her arm was bent back behind her head, which she placed nestled up against his own as he settled back against the pillows again.

"What are you doing?" she asked again, her voice falling back down to a whisper. He didn't move to touch her; rather, he resumed his prior activities as he allowed his eyes to unfocus without fighting to correct his vision this time.

"I was trying to think," he began slowly, "but that didn't turn out to be so fruitful."

"So, you're just lying here, staring off into space?"

"That would probably be more awe-inspiring than the ceiling," he announced, but didn't turn his head to look out the window.

"I'm sorry that you got dragged into this, none of this was," she began, and he could feel her nervousness growing as he failed to look in her direction.

"None of this was your doing," he assured her. "Just, lay here with me, let's not talk, okay?"

Her silence was his answer, and he reached his hand down to grab hold of hers, squeezing it reassuringly. He wasn't out to punish her; he just needed the quiet and peace of mind that came with her presence.

He turned his head to take her in after several minutes of stillness, the only motion in the room other than the ticking of the grandfather clock in the suite's main hall being his gently stroking of her palm with his thumb and their even breathing.

"What's it going to take?"

"Excuse me?" she turned her head to face him as well.

"To get you out, what's it going to take?"

"Logan, I thought we weren't going to talk," she tried to be playful, smiling at him despite the fear in her eyes.

"Rory, I'm serious. I can have my lawyer go over the arrangements, I'm sure he can find some loophole," he began, but she drew her hand out of his and pressed two fingers to his lips.

"I don't know. I've accepted this as what is going to happen, Logan, I can't suddenly have answers once you start talking about lawyers and," she stopped, the word that was about to roll off her tongue too irreversible to be uttered.

"And what?" he stroked her cheek now with his free hand.

"Us," she let go, biting her lip to keep it from wavering.

He wrapped his hand around her neck, pulling her head to his. He rolled up onto his side, pressing his weight into her, letting her feel the impact of her last word as he'd felt it. He wanted to be around her, inside of her, consuming her; her doubt, her trepidation, her exhilaration, her grief. He kissed her until he could feel her sobbing underneath him, the events of this weekend too much to hold off any longer. If she had been hiding the monstrosity that had become her personal life from her mother, she probably hadn't wanted her to witness her breaking down in concern over her grandfather either.

He refused to pull back, holding tighter as she gripped his arms with her hands, making futile attempts to even her breath. He told spoke softly, reassuringly into her ear about how she deserved to have someone there for her at times like these, how he was honored to be that man; promising that she didn't have to be alone anymore.

"Do your really think it's worth it?" she asked when she found her voice at last.

"If you're really going to let me help, I'm really going to fight this tooth and nail," he assured her, "But you are going to have to trust me and do what I ask."

She looked at him, wide-eyed and at the ready. "Where do we start?" she sniffed.

"First, you need to go home," he fought to keep his eyes trained on hers, not wanting to let himself envision her leaving his side to be subjected to the lack of tenderness and attention that she needed now more than ever, "and tell him that you aren't leaving your job yet."

"But, I," she began, ready at the set-off with excuses and justifications, put in her head no doubt by her husband.

"I need to be able to see you, to plan and run things by you, and working together will get us that time," he licked his lips, at the ready to argue this out with her. He had to be prepared to go to battle, starting with her uncertainty.

"Okay. I'll do it," she complied tiredly, resting her head on his shoulder in defeat. He placed a kiss against her forehead, willing her to rest now and let him carry the burden of finding a way out. Now he had two Gilmore women counting on him, and more importantly, trusting him.

He held her until she fell asleep, and he resumed his staring up to the heavens, doing his damnedest not to think about the morning coming about and the moment that he'd have to watch her go her separate way. He just hoped her path would converge back with his much sooner this time around.


	11. Want to Forget About

Story: Another Round

Chapter Title: Want to Forget About

Summary: Rogan. Future fic. There's a new arrangement between the two.

"Ms. March is here," came his secretary's voice over the intercom. He pressed his finger down on the hard button to respond. "Send her right in."

He'd known she would come sometime today—he hadn't expected to have to wait all day, however. She must have cleared every last paper off of her desk before meandering her way toward his makeshift office. He tried to find a command post, no matter how unsatisfactory, in each situation he encountered. It was important to be among the people he was now in charge of—he'd learned that from his father. But for him, it wasn't about lording his presence over his underlings; it was about showing a sense of team work. Learning names, strengths, weaknesses; these were the things he prided himself on normally. Unfortunately he wouldn't be able to tell you one person's name he'd met all week. It had been four days both since he took to spending his working hours in this office and when he'd last seen Rory, and he all he could see in his mind's eye was how she looked when she left the hotel room that Monday morning.

The first three days he spent trying to convince himself that he would see her again. That she hadn't decided to leave her job quietly and go about her life as an unappreciated trophy wife. Contingency plans sprung up in his head, how to find her and convince her otherwise. Ways to go about showing her that he needed her far more than her cad of a husband did. Perhaps just letting her see the effects of having her vacant from his life was having on him was enough to convince her. God knows it was enough to convince him.

His lack of attention to his surroundings could also have been attributed to his disinterest in food and inability to sleep, but really these two things were in direct correlation to the lack of her. Nothing tasted as good as she did, therefore leaving a bitter taste in his mouth when he attempted to replace his craving with lacking substitutes. He couldn't even drink coffee, as he preferred the taste of her lip balm mixed in with the slightly harsh flavor. He couldn't sleep as there was nothing there to sap up the extra heat that he produced in his frenzy of tossing and turning due to the fact that nothing was there to anchor him down.

No, he was not doing well in her absence.

"Mr. Huntzberger," she said clearly before shutting the door behind her. She was the mark of a professional. It was apparent that she'd spent some time getting her hair pulled back impeccably this morning and her suit had been pressed, despite the fact that the tightness of her hair style had been loosened as the small creases from sitting at her desk chair had formed along her thighs. The consummate working woman. No one would know to look at her the inner turmoil that he could see brewing just beneath the surface in her eyes. He knew her so well.

"Lock it," he nearly growled, referring to the door.

"Logan," she gasped as he advanced on her, pressing her into the door from the sheer force of his lips on hers.

"Logan, we can't do this," she made to push him away, her hands on his chest, but instead he felt her nails digging in through the cotton of his dress shirt, inviting him to continue.

"I missed you," he breathed in between kisses, "God, you taste amazing," he closed his eyes, moving back against her.

"I didn't come here for this," she whimpered. "I came," she grabbed hold of his silk tie, tugging him in closer unexpectedly and his teeth clinked against hers brashly. He fought the urge to toss her onto the leather couch on the opposite side of his office.

"I came to discuss extending my stay at the paper," she won out, her hand moved over his mouth. Her fingers slipped into his mouth, pulling slightly at his lower lip. He felt her fingernail graze his gum line before she pulled away. "Logan, we have to keep business business-like."

"Fine, fine, I can do that," his eyes were dilated beyond recognition. Going days without touching her—or worse, not knowing if he would ever touch her again—that had to stop. "Just, sit, there," he ushered her to the chair on the opposite side of his desk. "And I'll sit here. And we can talk business," he nodded, straightening his tie as she ran a finger around the outside of her lips, wiping away lipstick smeared by the sliding of his lips against hers.

"So, I realize I handed in my resignation, but it may have been a bit premature. Is there any way that I can maintain my status for a while longer?" she spoke the obviously rehearsed lines. He didn't care that she was performing for an unseen audience. He just cared that if he reached out, he could smooth the stray hairs that he'd pulled out from her carefully done chignon.

"How much longer are we talking?" he narrowed his eyes. He truly wanted to know.

"A month. Unless," she bit her lip, showing that old habits die hard. She was nervous.

"Unless what?"

"Unless you think it would take longer," she paused carefully, "to find a suitable replacement. I wouldn't want to leave you shorthanded."

"I think a month is plenty of time to work something out," he breathed. He'd already been on the phone to his lawyer and was waiting for his return call. "I'll just need you to meet with one of my legal team, to iron out the contracts that have already been drawn up. I want it to be to both of our advantages, the deal we come to agree upon."

"Of course," she stood, checking her watch. "I should go. I have an engagement."

"Business or pleasure?" he asked, suddenly not sure which answer would mean what.

"I'm meeting an old friend from college. It seems like it's been years since I've gotten to be with him, like old times."

"Rory," he moved back around the desk and took hold of her hand.

"Business," she whispered. "Please. I can't go out there, after being in here with you, like this," she beseeched him. "If we don't keep control of ourselves in here, everyone will know, and there'll be no hopes for any of this to work."

"Would it be so bad if he found out about us? He'd just give you a divorce, wouldn't he?"

She pulled out a bound set of papers from the briefcase she'd dropped by his door, handing it off to him now. "Section 84, paragraph A," she instructed.

He took the hefty document into his hands, flipping furiously through her premarital contract. This thing was thicker than most of his company acquisition briefs that he spent hours initialing. It would take his lawyer days to sort through. "Jesus, he didn't want you out of this thing, did he?"

She didn't speak; she just crossed her arms and waited. He found the section she was referring to and skimmed over it, trying to pluck out plain English from the weird legal speak that these things were drafted in. Once realization set in, he stared up at her with his jaw hanging ajar.

"He actually had the balls to put this in?"

"It has to do with the question of paternity for any prospective children," she shook her head. "I felt guilty, about having been with you all that time," she teetered on the brink of tears.

"But ten million dollars? For evidence of an affair?"

"Supposedly that's quite a deal for the assurance that any child I bear is his own. And besides, when your grandmother is looking over your shoulder while you sign, you can't really protest the idea. I could practically hear her thinking I could never do such a thing so terrible as to cheat on my husband," she met his eyes. "Logan, I don't have ten million dollars. Especially if we got divorced, I'd be left with nothing."

"You'd be left with me. I have money, Rory," he reached up and finally tucked the stray lock of hair behind her ear.

"No, it'll just be easier, less messy, if he doesn't know," she closed her eyes. "No one can know," she pierced through him when she reopened her eyes. "Please, promise me."

"I promise," he sat the document down and pulled her against him soothingly. "My lawyer will meet with you on company time, and I'll be there; it'll all be behind closed doors. We start tomorrow," he promised her.

"Tomorrow," she nodded. "About tonight," she reached her hand out, to touch his arm fleetingly.

"Tonight isn't business. It's just us."

She nodded and tapped the document. "So, tomorrow."

He nodded. "Tomorrow. Thank you for your time, Ms. March."

She opened the door and smiled at him professionally. "Please, call me Gilmore. Everyone else around here does."

She left him standing speechless against his desk, as she moved back into the flurry of activity of the office, and once again he was rendered completely useless to any of the hundreds of tasks at hand.

--&--

He'd thought it was too good to be true when she spoke of meeting an old friend in his office. His mind spun from the dizzying tornado of questions that overtook him as she stood at the threshold to his apartment. How she was suddenly able to come back to work, what made her able to get away from her home tonight as opposed to the past three, if her husband was otherwise occupied, or she'd found every second of the past few days to be mounting the same heavy weight in layers upon her skin, as had seemed to form on his. If she just wanted to forget about her life or learn more about his.

But when she reached out and took his whiskey on the rocks out of his hand, downing the remainder of the liquid, his mouth went dry. She was good at leaving him thunderstruck, it seemed. He closed the door behind her, watching as she slinked over to his couch in the tightest little black dress she owned. She'd dressed up for him, he realized, as he noted the addition of darker make-up surrounding her eyes and her slightly messy, yet styled hair. She set down the glass, now weeping with condensation, on a coaster and leaned her bottom against the arm of his couch.

His urge was to take her away, like it had always been, to set her apart, to help her cling to him in a foreign surrounding, while managing to show her that he (and he alone) could give her the world. But she was here to relive the old days. And in the old days, the better she looked, the faster his decline into forgetting reservations and carefully plotted out plans. There was no need to build himself up in her eyes. She was already tearing him apart with just the lustful glaze that coated her eyes, her skin. She didn't want to make polite dinner conversation, she wanted to engage in pillow talk. Wine didn't interest her when the sensation of him tasting her made her drunk with want.

As her arms circled around his neck, he realized this was what set him apart. Her husband had been the one that took her to foreign lands and convinced her that she would be lost without him. He wanted her weak and dependent. He'd never made her feel invincible, as she did when in Logan's arms. She had to know he'd do anything for her, the greatest gift being for her to see herself through his eyes.

Her dress was drawn up around her waist; his shirt was lying in tatters off the side of the bed. She took hold of his jaw, making sure he stayed intent on her eyes. There were no more questions as she clung to him, her soft voice becoming a beacon for his clarity, his sanity lying somewhere deep within her. All he had to do was melt into her.

Her cheek now pressed into his chest, he traced the upturned corners of her lips with a single finger, the barest touch. She stilled his hand by wrapping her grip around his wrist and kissed the pads of his fingers.

"Happy birthday," she whispered.

He looked suddenly to the clock on his bedside table. 12:02 a.m.

"How did you know?" he was incredulous.

"You think a journalist of my talents can't scrape together a few clues over the years?" she teased, running a fingernail down his chest before jabbing him lightly with it.

"You're amazing," he kissed her deeply, lovingly. He couldn't imagine a better gift, than having her here in his arms. He'd never found anything to beat the feeling of her skin against his. "You've been planning this?"

"He thinks I'm visiting my mother," she let her hair fall over her face. "He came back, two days ago, and after I told him I wanted to stay on a bit longer at the paper, until after he moves up to Hartford," she began.

"You're moving to Hartford?" he interrupted.

"We have to, to establish a household, for residency," she blinked, looking at him as if he'd forgotten the whole of the story she was leaving out.

"Residency for?" his hand gripped hers.

"He's running for office, in the next election. He wants to start a family, to better his chances, and to get a hold of the money in the trust for campaigning—the one he gets when we have kids."

"What did he say?" he kept his tone calm, his thumb stroking hers rhythmically to the beat of his heart.

"When?"

"When you told him to move up ahead of you," Logan closed his eyes, pressing his lips into her hair.

"He told me I had a month to get work out of my system, and then I better be ready to live the life I'd agreed to," she spoke barely above a whisper.

"I'll have you out in a month," Logan assured her, feeling her shiver against him.

"I almost didn't come back," she admitted softly. "He got so mad at first," she shook her head, pressing her face into him, to block out all reality but his nearness.

"What made you come back?" he brushed his fingers against her cheek, realizing she'd begun crying as moisture made his fingers glide slickly over her skin.

"This isn't about me," she leaned up to look in his eyes. His heart warmed, and his skin prickled in anticipation. "We're a team now," she breathed. "Aren't we?"

"We're a pretty damn good one," he smiled. "There's no one I'd rather be in the trenches with, Ace."

She blushed at his comment, her smile softening the features of her face. "I'm sorry, I wanted tonight to be special, for your birthday; I didn't want to talk about me and my problems," she shook her head, as if everything would disperse off of her.

"Then let's go back to not talking," he rolled over, sinking her willing body into his mattress below, ready to make his wish.


	12. One For The Feeling

Story: Another Round

Chapter Title: One For The Feeling

Summary: Rogan. Future fic. There's a new arrangement between the two.

"It's not just her."

The words rang in his mind endlessly, to the point of distraction of all else. He was still on the phone with his lawyer, but he couldn't focus on any other words, the findings that were insignificant in relation.

"You're sure?"

"We've combed through it carefully, as always, Logan," he sighed. "He's as locked in as she is. He probably didn't ever bank on her caring one way or another. Most of these couples, they tend to look the other way to keep other comforts in line, if you know what I'm saying. She's really up for shaking this up?"

"She is. Her career is on the line, and it's not something she wants to give up."

"Then we're gonna need her home address, to start a tail on the guy."

"I don't have that information, she works for me, nothing more," he said, feeling heat rise up the back of his neck. This was the kind of information he'd been avoiding of late. Knowing how to reach her at any given moment would lead to him making attempts to reach her at any given moment.

"If she works for you, it's on file somewhere. Have your secretary pull it and call me back."

"Look, can't you just--," Logan began, but the man cut him off.

"Digging up dirt on him will only hasten the process. We've gone over and over this thing, and catching him in the act is the only way for her to get out without punitive damages. She can walk away, granted not with any real share of his money, but without getting tied up in more legal battles for the next ten years. Our following him is considered the easy route. Unless you think she can provide us with grisly, intimate details of her husband's infidelities—you think she's hired a P.I. before?"

Logan closed his eyes. "I'll have Grace find it, and I'll call you back."

"It's the wisest move, Logan. It really is. Less messy for everyone involved."

With that the line went dead. He stared at the phone for a beat before depressing the receiver and hitting the intercom button that buzzed his secretary to come into his office. She came in, steno pad in one hand and fresh cup of coffee in the other.

"You looked like you could use this," she smiled slightly as she slipped it under his grip. "What can I do for you, Sir?"

"I need an address," he finally made his eyes meet hers without raising his head.

--&--

He emptied his glass, placing it on the ring of water that had collected on his coffee table between raises to his lips. He stared at the scrap of paper Grace had brought in for him to recite to his lawyer hours before. After that, he should have thrown it away. He wished for a self-destructing message, like all the spies on old television shows seemed to receive. He'd definitely ingested too much amber alcohol to be looking at this particular string of numbers and letters. Meaningless, really, if he didn't know this was where she spent all her time not in his presence.

Leaving everything in its place, he slipped the paper back into his jacket pocket and headed out into the night.

--&--

"I'm sorry, Sir, you'll have to leave. You're not on the list."

"That's impossible. Call the lady of the house," he demanded of the imposing man who'd been paid to watch the door. It was clear that Logan had stumbled upon no ordinary night in Rory's life. People were dressed to the nines, producing invitations printed on fine linen paper that had their names embossed in gold. He had no such entry ticket, and so he argued in borderline drunken belligerence with the thug that was probably permanently on her husband's payroll. Had a vision in blue not come to rest at said thug's elbow at that very moment, those might have been his next words.

"Is there a problem here?" she smiled amiably at both men.

"He's not on the list, but he insists he was invited."

"That's my fault, I'm afraid. I invited him myself, this week, but I didn't have time to get him on the official list," she explained to the man as if she owed him something. She looked to Logan with frenzy and what he would swear to his dying day was relief.

"What's all the commotion, Darling?"

Logan and Rory both looked at the third man, who now slid his arm rather protectively around her slim waist. He stood six feet tall, with dark hair and eyes. Logan also noticed the way her whole body twitched and tensed as he pulled her close, rather than the way every last part of her relaxed when he held her near. He couldn't help but smile.

"Oh, silly me, I forgot to add the co-workers I'd invited this week to the party. We have a new corporation over us now, and Mr. Huntzberger is the owner of Huntzberger Media," she explained, now finding an excuse to look directly at him. "Logan Huntzberger, I'd like you to meet my husband, Theodore March," she introduced.

"I apologize for my wife's oversight. It is rather difficult for a woman, to manage both the duties of home and work. It'll be quite refreshing for her not to have to please us both come next month, I should think."

Logan held in the comeback that surfaced to his lips. "I should imagine she will be quite relieved to be rid of any burden."

"We should get out of the doorway, we're blocking everyone's way," she slipped easily out of her husband's grasp, leading the way toward the main room where tuxedoed waiters were carrying trays of food and champagne.

"I should make the rounds. Glad to have a man in the media game on my side," Theodore March shook his hand and slipped away, leaving them alone in a crowd of strangers.

"Can I get you something to drink? I'm afraid all we have going about it is champagne, but I could make you something else in the bar in the sitting room," she didn't even look back; sure he would follow her without hesitation. He kept an eye on her, so as not to make a wrong turn, while surveying the crowd with his periphery.

"Scotch okay?"

"Neat," he amended, and she nodded as she took the crystal container in one hand, pouring it carefully and skillfully into a tumbler. "I wasn't expecting a bouncer to greet me at your door."

She handed it off and put the hand that had just brushed his fingertips with hers, enough to make him shiver, on her hip.

"I wasn't expecting you," she said, as the door was to remain open.

"Well, I had something time-sensitive to inform you of," he took another swig. It didn't even burn anymore.

"I should go mingle," she touched the back of her carefully styled hair.

"Everything looks perfect," he assured her. "I take it tonight makes the campaign official?"

She nodded, still not having moved an inch away from him. "He's going to make a formal announcement tonight around nine. The camera crews should be here any moment," she checked her watch.

"Then you should get back out there," he nodded. "I'm happy to lend my support to your cause. I'd like a chance to discuss that with you, ways in which I'm prepared to aid you."

She let out a sigh as her fingertips went to her temples. This was too much for her. She wasn't really ready, if she'd ever be ready, to blend these two worlds.

"I can wait," he assured her, pushing her farther. "I'll just see to pouring my own drinks," he reached past her to refill his glass. Getting close enough to smell the light perfume she'd applied, but not close enough to feel guilty should someone else come into the room suddenly.

"I understand that you're very busy tonight," he added before taking the next drink in one long, slow gulp.

"Logan, stop it," she warned in a low, dangerous whisper. "You're going to get drunk," she hissed, while making an attempt at grabbing hold of the tumbler he still gripped like a lifesaver. He was a drowning man, after all.

"Too late, Ace. Why do you think I came here tonight? To watch you play house? If you think I don't need every goddamn last drop of this to be here," he shook his head bitterly.

"Then leave," she pleaded. "You don't need to be here."

"Yes, I do. I need to tell you something," he swallowed the pride that she evoked when she asked him to leave. He couldn't be the one she wanted to leave. Not without him by her side.

"Lorelai?"

It was him. Looking for her. Logan knew she had to go and that he had to go as well. Being here was a punishment that neither of them deserved and one that he couldn't help but dole out. He told himself he needed reassurance that she was in deed miserable in this life she wanted out of. When she looked to him before answering the call, he knew he'd come for far more selfish reasons.

"I'll stay, we can talk later."

She nodded and headed out of the room. "I'm coming, Honey," she called out without a tinge of warmth in her voice. Endearments she used were also for show. She'd never used endearments with Logan, and he was suddenly reassured. She'd done nothing on purpose to do so, but he was seeing that it took less each time for her to calm his nerves.

--&--

He stayed for the announcement. The two hours that led up to the pompous speech, during which she'd remained steady and proud at his side like Jackie Kennedy herself, had been filled with random chatter with people that moved in circles just parallel to his own. They all knew similar people, but this was a very conservative crowd. This wasn't his brand of politics. He knew his father would be furious at him to have been spotted in such a crowd. He'd explain it was on behalf of business, not in order to shell out Huntzberger money to such a right-winged fraud.

He went out in search of her. She'd been out of sight for the last ten minutes, he assumed giving press interviews. She must hate it, not being the one asking the questions, but rather spitting out scripted answers. He saw said reporters, talking with various members of the gathered crowd. No Rory.

He wound up down a long corridor, seeking out a bathroom. A good cold splash of reality might help him focus. He couldn't risk anything tonight. He knew he couldn't touch her. He shouldn't even be here to tell her about the tail. It was all too risky. He would feel the cold water douse over him and leave without so much as a goodbye. She'd be relieved, and he could afford another fitful night of no sleep.

It wouldn't be the first, and he was sure it wouldn't be the last.

He heard the shouting from down the hall, and his first instinct was to move away. But when he heard his name being shouted in the foggily familiar baritone, he stepped to the outside of the door.

"Some sort of expose?"

"I told you, he's not a reporter!" she yelled back.

"No way is Huntzberger here out of the goodness of his heart, Lorelai. You can't be that naïve. He has money and influence, every move of his is calculated."

"You should know," she bit back, and then Logan heard the unthinkable. The sound of skin smacking against skin. His blood surged through his body, white-hot, and he reached for the door handle.

"Get rid of him," came the barking response, and Logan slipped quickly into the next open room as he saw the doorknob twist in front of him.

He stepped back into the bathroom that the angry man had just stormed out of. Rory hadn't bothered to close the door fully behind him. He shut the door, locked it, and watched as she held a cold washcloth to her cheek.

"You shouldn't have come," she said softly.

"Come with me."

Her eyes looked up into his, the melancholy they were swimming in making her irises even bluer than normal.

"I'll be in Hartford tomorrow, visiting my grandfather," she announced. "I can meet you for coffee in Woodbridge."

"Come with me now," he said much more decisively.

Tears now streamed down her face as she fought for composure. "What did you come to tell me?"

He wrapped his arms around her, letting his head sink down onto her shoulder. "My lawyers have figured out a loop hole, but it involves tailing him, keeping tabs on him, catching him in the act of cheating on you. Evidently he forgot to make it a one-way street in any of the fine print. I wanted you to be prepared, before it started."

"Do whatever you have to, I can't keep going like this," she sobbed into the lapel of his jacket, clutching at her shoulders with her hands.

"You aren't safe here, I can't just leave you," he ran his hand up and down her back gently.

"He's leaving tonight, for Hartford. He won't be here, I'll be fine."

"Then let me stay."

She studied him, clearly taken aback. "You know that's not possible. I can meet you tomorrow. I know this isn't easy."

"Not easy? Do you know what I would give to save you from even one more second of his treatment of you? What I would give to just touch you for one more second? How I had no choice but to come over here, once I had your address in my hand?"

"What do you want me to do?" she cried. "I'm leaving him as fast as the law will allow me, Logan. I can't go with you, because he'd know. You can't stay here because the help doesn't leave until the morning, when I've arranged for them to so he won't know. Is this about knowing I'm yours?"

"Rory," he closed his eyes, his thoughts and alcohol swirling together in his brain to make him woozy.

"Because I've been yours for years. I've given myself over to you more times than I can count. Every time you touch me. Do you want me right now?" her voice seemed not her own. She knew better than to do this, yet she was advancing on him, her hand on the side zipper of her gown.

He watched as she uncased herself, the zipper pulled down its length and her dress starting to fall down on itself. Her breasts were bare underneath, and fabric bunched at her waist, gliding still down her long legs.

"I need you to touch me just as much as you want to," she confessed, now having backed him against the sink. "We've pushed our luck far enough tonight, what's one more?"

"Are you punishing me?" he whispered. His hands hovered over her bare skin, wanting to touch her, but not wanting to push her any farther than he had. He knew her current state of heightened arousal was his doing. "We can't do this."

"Make me feel loved," she whimpered, pushing the fabric the rest of the way off of her hips and stepping out of the confinement of the evening.

"That's all I wanted," he said quickly before attaching himself to her. His lips worked over her, to correct the sharp pain she'd encountered just moments before. Soft caresses soothing the hard snap of an unloving hand. Her hands ran up and down his shirt front, unbuttoning so she could feel his skin under hers.

They were getting careless, perhaps, but neither cared as they moved together, both seeking out reassurances that this would all work out in the end. They didn't pretend to have the luxury of time, and so they rushed perfection. Her skin was clammy as she shivered against him, just minutes later against the cold tile of the bathroom floor.

"If he ever hurts you again," Logan closed his eyes as he wrapped his arms tighter around her. "I won't be able to hide my reaction. I was ready to kill him, until he started for the door and I realized what would happen," he took a breath. "Part of me thinks I did the wrong thing, still."

"I'm fine," she assured him. "You did the right thing. I can't even imagine what would have happened if you'd gone after him," she shook her head.

"If he ever lays a hand on you again," he began again.

"He won't. I won't be alone with him in the next month, and by then," she looked hopefully into his eyes. "I should get dressed. People will be starting to leave."

"I'm sorry my coming here caused all of this," he kissed her gently once more before they began collecting their clothes.

"He doesn't think you're my lover, he's afraid you're here to investigate him for the paper," she rolled her eyes. "He's always more concerned about himself."

"Is there something going on he doesn't want revealed?" Logan asked as they pulled their clothes back up onto their pleasured bodies.

"Why?"

Logan shrugged. "Just sounds like a story for my star reporter," he smiled. "A way to hit him where it hurts."

She smiled back and wrapped her arms around his neck tightly. "I love the way your mind works."

"Make sure you only take your car, not a limo service under his billing from here on out," he gave his last parting words of the evening. "The tails will be following anything that he pays for. Your car is the only thing that's not in his name, and we don't want you to be brought into his dealings in any way. If you need a ride, call me, and I can send a driver for you, anywhere, anytime."

She nodded before checking for a clear exit. When she saw no one, she allowed him out before her, and they walked together to the front doors.

Theodore was there, bidding others farewell. "There you are! You nearly missed saying goodbye to the mayor," he reeled his wife in at his side, and she plastered a smile on as she received kisses to her cheeks.

"I was just ushering Mr. Huntzberger out," she informed her husband.

"It was good of you to come," Theodore took his hand and shook it firmly. "I wasn't aware that we were on the same team," he probed.

"My family makes it a point to support those who make us successful. And your wife made it clear that this was an important cause to her—though I must say everyone at the paper will be saddened to see her go."

"Yes, well, I felt it was important to support her desire to work, just as it's now her turn to support me. Are you married, Mr. Huntzberger?"

Logan looked to Rory. "No."

"Marriage is about supporting one another, even if one of the pair has to give up certain things for the greater good. You'll see that when you find the right woman."

Logan nodded. "Yes, well, I hope to find the right woman at my side sooner rather than later. Goodnight, and thanks for having me," he gave a half smile and walked out the main doors, leaving Rory smiling at his double talk, though her husband's arm was around her, ready to steer her where ever he needed her for the rest of the evening.

It hadn't been the smartest move on his part, going there like he did, but he came away more sure that he had done the right thing in not giving up on her once he'd found out she was married. All these years she'd kept to her own schedule, keeping him at bay not out of teasing or taunting. She'd done it for her own safety. She'd seen him as often as she could over the years without placing doubt in the mind of her controlling husband. He knew with more certainty than ever that he was the one she wanted to be with. And he was going to do everything in his power to make sure they didn't make the same mistakes twice. He needed to keep his head clear, and the only way he saw of accomplishing that was to see her more.

He needed to call in for reinforcements.


	13. Room For Photographs

Story: Another Round

Chapter Title: Room for Photographs

Summary: Rogan. Future fic. There's a new arrangement between the two.

He rode as usual in the back of the car that transported him from home to work, unless he was taking off on his own joyriding afterwards. It was a habit he'd gotten into young in life, not wanting hired hands to have knowledge of his misgivings, and therefore being able to crack under his father's pressure to give him up. His recklessness had consequences for others if he allowed it, so he simply took measures to protect the innocent, while covering his own ass as well. He'd gotten quite skilled at it.

Yet here he was, his phone in his hand, ready to ask the one person he'd avoided all these years for his help. For his own brand of expertise. It meant having to confess his years of extracurricular activities, years of not being the man that was expected of him. Years of not looking for a suitable match to help him manage his now mostly inherited fortune.

If only the lawyer's hired hands had found something. It'd already been a week, and nothing of use had turned up. No incriminating photos, nothing from the phone taps—the guy was either clean or too smart to be caught by his legal team.

His only solace had been in seeing her—but facing her was a different ordeal when he had nothing good to tell her. No promise in his message, save for he would see this through, no matter the cost. He just hadn't led her to believe his costs would be more than monetary. His pride was about to take quite a hit, with the press of one button.

He couldn't take any more risks. He'd gone to see her last weekend out of desperation and had encountered her husband. He'd seen the hell she endured, and it took more than he was capable of, restraint wise, to leave there empty handed. The longer this went on, the greater the chance he would crack. This had to be done.

He raised the privacy screen that separated the driver from himself and pressed the button that dialed his father's private cell phone.

"Logan?"

"Yeah. You have a minute?"

"Where are you?"

"On my way home. I have an issue, I need your assistance with."

"Let's hear it," he could hear the pleasure in his father's voice. This had to be the first time since he was a young boy that he'd been naïve enough to ask for his help.

"Who would you hire, to expose philandering?"

"That depends on the situation," he led.

"A politician, a careful one. I've already got someone on it, but they haven't turned up squat."

"You're sure this person is doing what you're attempting to prove they're doing?"

"Positive."

"And you have just reason to do this? Someone that threatens business in some way?"

Logan was silent. "I have my reasons."

"Logan, cut the shit."

"I have my reasons, okay?"

"Alright. Who hired the people you have on it now?"

"Edwards' team."

"Legally hired PIs? Never. They're nowhere as ruthless as what you need. Politicians are paid liars, Logan, you know that. You need someone more ruthless than they are. I can email you a couple of numbers."

"Thank you," he nodded. He figured that his legal team was what he would deem ruthless. Leave it to his father to deconstruct that notion.

"Look, son, I don't know exactly what you've gotten yourself into here," he drew a breath, "but if you're mixed up in what I think you might be," he sighed.

"I'm not discussing those details," he said adamantly.

"Even if she divorces him, it doesn't mean she's going to be yours."

"Excuse me?"

"Women in this situation, they are desperate. She wants out of her marriage, and you're her lifeline. She is building you up now, but once she's free she won't need saved anymore."

"You have no idea what you're talking about."

"All right. I'm just trying to give you advice—you seemed to need it."

"Thanks for the numbers. I'll talk to you at the shareholder's meeting."

He flipped his phone closed. His mouth had gone dry, and he detected a bitter taste, leftover from his own words. He stared out the window, watching buildings pass by until finally his car slowed to a stop. He got out and retreated into his lair, hoping that alcohol would replace this after flavor of bad medicine, not to mention drown the gnawing feeling in his gut. He didn't pass go, he simply moved straight to his mini-bar in the front room. He took the lid off the decanter and began pouring.

"Rough day?"

He nearly lost his grip on the crystal container. His heart stopped and restarted with the sound of her voice. She'd forgotten her key again, it seemed, as she sat curled up on his couch with a glass of her own. Either vodka or water, but he would guess the latter. Deep down she was a good girl.

"Something like that," he downed the first gulp, like water to fish out of water.

"It's rather early to begin drinking."

"It's well past five o'clock, thank you."

She shrugged non-committally as he tossed his keys and wallet onto the side table next to her. He took another sip, smaller now as he was already warmed at her very presence.

"Any word on Richard?" he asked, having last seen her at a coffee shop near the hospital the last day she visited her grandfather.

"He's doing better, but only just. Grandma's been reading him all his papers, sleeping on a cot in his room. She refuses to leave."

He nodded. Things he would do if she were in the same state, the thought ran through his mind, causing him to shiver. He wasn't as warm as he'd thought, or his subconscious was much more caught up in the idea that she wanted him for life than he thought he was. Damn his father. He took another sip. "Understandable. They've been married a long time."

"More than forty-five years. Grandma had already started planning their fiftieth wedding anniversary party."

He closed his eyes; voluntarily, he tried to convince himself. When he opened his eyes, he saw she'd picked up his wallet, and had begun a wandering sort of search. No real rhyme or reason—she was just poking about the contents. Pulling random cards up out of their usual slots, running her fingers over the top of the money inside the furthest reaches, running her fingers over the photo of his nephew in the front picture pouch. His own photo ID was on the opposite side, and she pulled that out of its encasing.

"I thought you'd be more photogenic than this," she frowned, with a teasing amusement that made the corners of her mouth upturn slightly, despite her best efforts.

"Yeah, well, life's a bitch," he teased back as she held it up for him to inspect as well. "You planning on stealing something?"

She shook her head casually. "Not right this moment, no."

"Ah, well, then, carry on," he sighed as he moved around to sit next to her on the couch as she continued to poke about in his most personal of belongings. Or at least, it was supposed to be. Was a wallet supposed to speak about you? It was calfskin, expensive, and held a portion of his worth inside of it. Proof that he was who he claimed to be. Was that what she was looking for?

"There are only three pictures in here?" she questioned him as her leafing through the plastic partitions continued past filled spaces.

"You just said yourself, I'm not very photogenic," he teased.

"Logan, you have a picture of a child," she began.

"My nephew," he added.

"And two women."

"My sister and mother. Respectively."

"This is pitiful."

"What, you thought it would be like my little black book? That's what cell phones are for, my dear," he joked. It's what his cell phone had been for, mainly, before he met her. He was horrible with remembering numbers. Very few ever stuck. Hers was engrained, etched in his brain, perhaps.

"It's just so empty."

He had no comeback for that one, so he took the last gulp of his drink. "Why are you here?"

It was her turn to be quiet. She set down his wallet just as she'd found it on the table next to her and shrugged. "It was quiet."

"I thought you'd relish in that. Enjoy the time away from him."

"It's one thing to be in a quiet house surrounded by things that are yours, things that you love. But nothing in that house is mine. Nothing that makes me feel loved."

"And so you came here?" he almost wasn't brave enough to get the words out.

She nodded and curled her long body in toward him. "Is that okay?"

He opened his mouth to respond, but hers was on his quickly, too fast for him to do more than sigh into her mouth. He melted into her touch at first, but found touching her skin wasn't satisfying enough. Feeling her touch him wasn't going to do it tonight. He wanted what he needed most basically at this point—to have her surrender herself to him. Assurance for more than tonight. He moved over her body, removing sections of clothing from her as they deterred his path.

She moaned under him, filling his normally silent home with her—soon with them as he joined in the echoing chorus of pleasure. She found her satisfaction early this evening, too soon for him. He wanted to drive her to the point of breaking, to have her crack under his touch, so he could put her back together. He kept on, seeking not just his own release, but to at least feel the start of her unraveling. In the end it was only he who unraveled, as she took him by force, assuming control as her body was now over his. She was a gale force that consumed him as she extracted what she knew he could give her. He held on for dear life, willing his body to hold out so he could turn about and go after his goal, but she too had a mission tonight it seemed. He gave in, to his body and to her. Her palms came over his chest, feeling his heart slow from nearly beating out of his chest to its normal syncopated rhythm.

When she slid off of him, she stood and took her water off the side table as she flashed him a mysterious smile. She took a sip and disappeared down the hallway without bothering to cover herself in the slightest. The erotic vision caused his body to react, despite not being quite recovered from recent activities. He groaned as he stood on unstable legs, wondering how she appeared so graceful at a time like this. When he found her, she was nestling under the covers of his bed.

"Join me?"

He nodded and slipped under the edge of the sheets to nuzzle up against her heat-radiating body. He held her close, feeling her heart beat against his, her fingers dig into the space between his shoulder blades, her feet run up his calves to curl around his legs. Yes, it was only he that would unravel this evening.

"There is room for more," he assured her softly but surely, as he kissed her hair.

"It just seemed so sparse—I didn't mean to criticize."

"Only one thing can fill it," he took her face in his hands, looking full into her deep blue eyes. "There's only one thing that has ever been able to fill any part of me."

"Logan," she whispered and pressed her lips to his softly.

"And I want to, but I can't, not until I'm sure that you're really," he began.

"Really free?" she made her attempt at finishing his sentence. She was so close.

"Really mine."

She was never close enough. He could literally breathe her in. He could taste her, become part of her, but his father's words nagged at him. He was afraid of their truth, even now as he cradled her in his arms, hearing her words of wanting to be nowhere else in the world, he feared the opposite outcome. This was his fantasy come true, one he'd realized over and over again. What he was finding to be true was that his fantasy had become wanting the solidness of reality—one in which the she was his in an every day sense. To know her touch was seen in the decoration of his home, to know hers was the face he would wake up to in the morning, to know that she would be the one in the cot at the hospital should the worst befall him.

He just hoped these were her fantasies as well.


	14. Box Full of Letters

Story: Another Round

Chapter Title: Box Full of Letters

Summary: Rogan. Future fic. There's a new arrangement between the two.

"It's just very vital, for her especially, that she continues working. She would shut down completely without something else to focus on; something to pour herself into. It's how she copes in times of stress, and with her grandfather and what her husband puts her through; I know I sound like a concerned mother here, but," she paused.

He stepped in, grabbing hold of her olive branch that he promised he'd accept. "You are. And it's fine."

"This isn't kosher, or it wouldn't be with her. She'd be mortified. I never even had to speak with her teachers like this; she excels. She lives to excel, she lives to write. And here I am, speaking with her boss, trying to avoid her failure."

"She could never fail; you're trying to prevent her resignation. There's a difference," he ignored the lit up phone panel—there would be plenty of time in his day to call back all the uptight businessmen. He'd taken the time to touch base with this woman, and he needed to give her all the time in the world. They were filtering information from each other—her in hopes of hearing that her daughter was going to make it through this, him in hopes of hearing he was right for pressing on. As much as he'd attempted to shut them out, his father's words rang over in his mind as he tried to sleep the past few nights. He told himself that the older man simply didn't know Rory; despite how well he might think he knows the situation.

Lorelai would be her best cheerleader. She lived with her alone for eighteen years; she gave her life at all risk to her own. She did what he hoped to do from here on out. She cared for her even when it seemed impossible. She put her first, providing for her needs before her own. All he needed right now was encouragement—proof that he wasn't a fool for wanting to do so. Proof that it wouldn't be tossed in his face, all this effort he was going to for her.

"You're very sweet, for a high-powered money man."

"I see where she gets her sense of humor," he responded quickly as he heard the tinge of teasing in her voice.

"How well do you know Rory?"

"I like to take the time to get to know the people that work for me. We've been working on a few projects together," he amended his words to make them more acceptable. He was used to the various forms of double talk.

"You just seem quite fond of her," Lorelai's voice seemed to echo over the line.

"Can I ask you something?" he put his head in his hands, holding the phone precariously to his head by his thumb hooked over the top of the receiver.

"Well, I should hope so. I've got you spying on my daughter, or rather, you've got people spying on her for me. Well, for her, I suppose I should say. I'm really doing all of this for her."

"Has she ever mentioned me?" his voice cracked as he let it out, the pain free flowing.

There was a pause on the other end, and he feared he'd gone too far. He feared her reaction would be similar as if he'd just asked to root around in her daughter's underwear drawer. He heard her let out a breath.

"How long have you known Rory?"

"Mr. Huntzberger!" Grace came flying through his door, looking rather harassed. He looked up to her, now feeling guilty for having been ignoring the flood of calls that she'd been trying to patch through to him in the past hour he'd been on the phone with Lorelai.

"What's wrong?" he let the receiver drop to his chest.

"Your father is here," came her professional voice, though it was laced with the same tension and what he assumed was concern. It didn't take much to see that his current lifestyle was getting to him. Working sixty hours a week, another twenty toward freeing Rory, not to mention the additional time spent awake, watching her sleep. . . .

"I'm sorry," he cringed. "Just offer him coffee, I'll be right with him," he assured her.

"You don't understand," she looked down, as if she were fearful of meeting his eyes. "He's taken a meeting."

"A meeting?" he could feel the color draining from his face.

"With Ms. March."

Logan closed his eyes and lifted the receiver to his lips again. "I'm going to have to call you back."

"Logan, what--," was all he heard as he invoked the dial tone.

"Where are they?"

"Conference room B. They have been, for about ten minutes," she hedged. "I tried, getting through to you, and I know you said no disruptions," she tapped her pen nervously against the pad she always brought in with her. "I thought you might like to be apprised of the situation."

"Thank you, Grace," he stood up and buttoned his suit jacket as he reached the door to his own office. He ignored all looks that he drew as he reached the closed door of the conference room. His eyes flitted immediately to an unoccupied desk. An unoccupied desk with a half-filled cup of coffee and stacks of color-coordinated notes. He felt his breath catch in his throat. He moved to the conference room door, running his hand over the smooth pressed wood that separated him from those inside. He cracked the door open, to hear the all too familiar tone of interrogation. He hated himself for listening first, when he was fully capable of imagining what was transpiring. He knew both of them too well not to have a full picture.

"So, it's just not enough for you, is that it?" his father's tone lowered—he was leaning on her. Leaning over her, to be sure.

"Of course it's not enough," she volleyed back.

"So, going after my son, that's your way of getting more?"

"Excuse me?"

"I know the situation. What I want you to know is that I will not sit back and allow you to draw my son into this further, thinking you'll be helping yourself to his name and money."

"You have no idea what you're talking about," she said carefully, he could tell she was on the verge of cracking. He knew he should already be in the room, calling off his father. She had no idea what it took to deal with this man.

"I just want your word that you'll step back once you're out of your marriage. If that's what you are truly looking for, that's not hard is it?"

"You have no right to talk to me this way," he heard her say, and he finally slipped into the room, standing beside her at last. Where he should have stood this whole time—in her defense.

"Dad," he lowered his voice to match his father's tone. He'd had years to practice the impression. "Stop this."

"I'm not quite ready for you, yet."

"You're finished here. If you aren't here about business, then you don't need to be here."

"Business is not something you should be discussing in front of her," Mitchum nodded toward Rory.

"Anything you can say in front of me, you can say in front of her."

"Logan, grow up."

"Excuse me," Rory said quietly as she slipped out of the room. Logan reached for her, but his father put his hand on his shoulder.

"Let her go."

"Are you happy now? What possessed you to go after her like that? She's not after my money," he erupted at the older man.

"You're sure about that? How many women have you let close enough to be in the situation to get near your money? You've never been like this, Logan, and I have to tell you, I'm concerned."

"Concerned that I'm in love?"

Mitchum let out a bitter laugh. "You're not in love. You're sexually satisfied. That doesn't last, trust me."

"Watch what you say," Logan growled.

"Can you even tell me the stock share of the company? When was the last time you took a meeting that didn't involve her situation? Spent a late evening at work, instead of comforting her in the seclusion of your home?"

"You have someone watching me?"

"I don't need to. Look, I know you think you're doing something noble here, son, but," he shook his head.

"I'm doing what I have to do. You can see yourself out."

With that he left his father standing alone in the room, off to find her. Her desk was still empty, and he retreated back to his office. Grace stood up, coming shockingly close. Her voice was barely a whisper.

"I tried to stop her, she just burst into your office," she told him. He put his hands on her shoulders, an unusual sign of closeness.

"I know. Thanks. I'm going to lock the door and talk her down; she had a run in with my father."

"Enough said," she gave a knowing look. Grace had been Mitchum's last secretary, the final six months of aggression had been her first six months with the company. He knew his explanation was enough for her not to raise her eyebrows at.

He nodded and opened his door, locking it swiftly behind him. She had helped herself into his private mini-bar, and rattling the tops of decanters in search of some temporary sanity.

"I'm sorry."

She turned sharply and looked at him accusingly. "For what exactly?"

"Rory, I can explain."

"Explain why your father was calling me a money-loving gold-digger? Or how he came to know about the situation at all?"

He closed his eyes as he leaned against his door. "I needed some advice."

"I thought you understood that this was to remain between the two of us. He could tell anyone!"

"Rory, calm down. I needed a better investigator. My father had the connections we needed. I never told him about us—that he assumed on his own."

"No, it's good. Now I finally know what you think of me," she slammed down the crystal bottle so hard he feared it might shatter, after pouring some if it's contents out for herself.

"I've never shared an opinion with my father, I don't intend on starting now."

Her hand shook at she raised the glass to her lips. Her face winced as the liquid went down, harsher than she expected or perhaps just not what she was used to. Or maybe she was just not ready to utter the words that were welling up in her.

"What is it you think of me, then?"

"How can you ask me that?" he turned her tone back on her. He didn't have to take this from her, of all people, after all he'd done—all he'd promised to do in the future. How long had she kept him in the dark, in silence, never knowing what he was letting her do to him. . . .

"If you think that I'm out for your money, you're demented. I have money now, Logan. See how happy it's made me?" she took off her ring and threw it across the room. It made a rather unsatisfying noise as it struck the hard wall and fell to the floor.

"I've kept your secrets, all these years! Even when I didn't know I was, don't you see that? Do you know what it was like, between times I saw you? Not knowing where you were, or what you were doing? And to find out that you were married! If you want to talk about trust, here," he accused.

"I didn't have a choice!"

"You did! I gave you the choice, to be with me. You turned it down then, how am I to know you'll accept it now?" his voice was rising, but he didn't care. Let everyone in the building, or city rather, hear them.

She kept silent, folding her arms over one another. "It was for the best."

"Was it?" he advanced on her, grabbing hold of her elbows. "Was it worth it, to break my heart over and over again, every time you came back to my bed to give me a taste of something I could never have?"

Tears brimmed up and spilled over her eyes. "I was afraid," she managed. "You said you didn't want any part of all of this, but you couldn't change who you were, where you came from—what you had to become."

She was falling apart in his arms—finally—and he almost couldn't look. All he could do was hold her.

"What are you talking about?"

"I've seen how these women live, Logan. You have too, and even though you told me you hated the lifestyle, and how you wanted to rebel away from it, well, look at you now, you're here, and I knew you'd have to be. I can take it from Theo. I can't take it from you. I just didn't want us to turn into that."

Lightening striking him couldn't have hurt worse than her last insight. "You thought I'd become like him—and you'd be pushed aside, like your situation now?"

"Can't you see? I wasn't raised to trust people like you!"

Her hands gripped at him, pleading with him not to let go of her. She needed support, his support, but he was teetering himself—grappling with the gravity of the situation.

"So, you spent all this time," he said calmly, "trying to push me away. Why now am I suddenly supposed to trust you, when you haven't given me the same advantage in the past?"

"Because I did, don't you see that? I couldn't stop myself from being with you. It was always you I wanted. I know that now."

"Words, Rory. It's all just words," he stepped back. "You should go. I have calls to make."

"Logan, let's talk about this," she had no ability to control the pain in her voice. He hated himself for being glad she'd know what it was to ache for him. He'd been aching for her for so long.

"If you need a minute, take it. I'll leave you alone for a bit," he moved to unlock his door. He looked at her, what they'd driven each other to. He wished the sight of her would turn his stomach, hating to see her mascara streaked face as she clutched at the glass of courage she'd used as a prop during this, their demise. All he could feel was the overwhelming urge to soothe her. He choked on his desire and took his leave, knowing he just couldn't go back.

XXXX

He'd made no other calls. He'd ignored the six messages Lorelai Gilmore had left for him, fearful after his sudden departure. He'd ignored the calls from both his father, and when it was clear he wasn't interested in speaking with him, his mother had tried, to be ignored as well. He was only interested in seeing one number come over his screen, but alas he continued to be disappointed today. He'd kept walking out of his office, out the building, not stopping until he reached his front door. There he'd drawn the blinds, put on a blues record, and waited.

Solace escaped him. Any plan he could use as a hatch to an escape route failed. When you live your life to the fullest extent of pleasure, substitutes will not do. Enjoying the feel of another woman under him was laughable. Throwing himself into work seemed hollow. Laying on the couch listening to, he closed his eyes and took the deep haunting voice in, Billie Holliday--that seemed just right now. Nothing gave him more pleasure than to realize this loss. This is what she had done to him.

The doorman buzzed his intercom. He stood up wearily, surprised to see his legs could still carry him the distance after imbibing bourbon, scotch, anything warm and brown that he could get his hands on.

"You have a visitor."

"Turn whoever it is away," his voice seemed pulled from his throat in a raspy string.

"The young woman says she has something to show you."

"Let her up." He'd said it without meaning to, but it was too late now.

He unlocked his door and sat back down, ready for what may come now with a fresh glass of his solace. Nothing she could do or say now could hurt him anymore. Not after her revelations this afternoon.

She hadn't changed after work. In fact, to retrieve the box she carried in her arms, she must have left work shortly after he did in order to extract it from whatever dusty location she kept it in at her home to meet him here now.

"If you were thinking that it was easy for me to try to forget you," she managed, her voice much haughtier and less tearful than earlier this afternoon, "then you are a damn fool. If you really needed more actions to back up my words, more than my years of coming to you, risking everyone in my life finding out what a failure, a liar I'd become, then shame on you. But here it is. The proof you'd asked for."

He lifted the lid off of the cardboard box. It was stuffed from side to side with papers, neatly divided at one point, before she'd overfilled each past capacity, by colored tabs labeling what was to be inside. One for what appeared to be a novel. Several filled with short stories. One for rejection slips for said stories. Several for research for what looked to be international correspondent pieces. The last section was in the worst shape. One single divider, pushed so far past its limits that he could barely read the tattered label.

Logan.

She'd tried to file him away with the rest of her dreams. He extracted one half-finished letter after another. The first told him that her actions had been selfish and their meetings would cease. This was dated two years prior. The next told him that the only time she felt alive was in his arms, and she had concocted a plan for them to run away together. This was dated one year ago. He leafed through one after another, hundreds of them laying in wait.

"'I can't apologize for what I've put you through, but you have to know my pain was always greater. To leave you is my own personal hell, but to be with you greater than any riches anyone could ever know,'" he read aloud from one. He looked up to see her standing before him just as defiantly, her arms crossed and gazing at him as he sorted through these building blocks of her life. Of the life she wanted, the one she so secretly pursued.

"'What you must think of me. If you think of me. Do you think of me? It's all I can do some days, to get me through, is to plan the next time I can slip out of this skin that carries out the desires of everyone else and become the woman I am when you're near. I'm proud of that person, I revel in it.'"

When she made no move to stop him, he continued. "'This has to stop. I know I've given you no warning—I never give you any warning. But it won't come as such as surprise to you, or that great a disappointment. How I long to give this to you in person, this horrible news, and hear you plead with me to change my mind. What would hurt worse, your pleas for me to stay, or your indifference to the situation at hand?'"

He placed the growing stack on his coffee table. "More words."

"Fuck you," she whispered, wiping tears away from the corners of her eyes.

He stood, stepped close to her, and pulled her against his lips. Her eyes were shockingly wide, and he held her tightly to avoid brushing her tears away with his own hands. He was comforted at the hot moisture that ran down her face. She was real, raw, and most importantly, here. "I trust your words. I always have. I can't stop now."

Her eyes closed in relief, and he pressed his lips against hers at long last. She wound her arms around him, securing her body against his, and for the first time today he felt rooted in the solidity of her body. He led her back through his apartment, into his bed, never stopping the shower of affection that he'd literally felt smoldering inside him all day long. Attempting to stop caring for her was like attempting to amputate part of himself. She was saving him from the pain.

XXXX

Hours later, he slipped out from under the soft confines of her arms. Suddenly he was alert, unable to lay still in any capacity. He knew her words were waiting for him—years of repression reining her in. Years of pride and fear waiting for him to release them. Their standoff had been called off, as she lay now as a part of his world.

He picked up a random letter and read to his heart's content.

'Words are very powerful. I don't have to tell you, of all people, that. I've always been moved outside of myself by reading someone else's passion. When it's my own passion, I have to lock it away, or else it become real. Writing it down is almost more permanent than saying it aloud, though it's what I long to do. Writing it down assures me I can lock it away, and keep it from dragging this whole situation into reality. But I have to say it somewhere, to get out it out of my body. It's eating me alive, not to tell you every time you look at me from across the room when I'm getting ready to leave you. When you run your hand over my bare body, ready to light me on fire with just your touch. I love you. There, I've said it, and now I can lock it away, safe from becoming your reality. But if you should ever want to know that I felt it, know that I do. Loving you is like knowing my name. I love you.'

He put the papers in a neat stack, shoved them back into their abused confines and stared at them. Back in their safety. Able to be hidden away again. He shook his head, retrieved them, and gently laid one down on the coffee table. He moved about his apartment, affixing each letter to a different surface. The refrigerator become covered in her scrawlings, his mirrors gave no reflection outside of her true feelings. He left the last one on the front door, turned out the lights and rejoined her in bed. He ran his hand over her soft curves under the blanket, tracing out words that he'd read on the papers that now decorated his apartment. He sealed them with his lips pressed into her back and fell into a restful slumber.


	15. Come On, Make It Last

Story: Another Round

Chapter Title: Come On, Make It Last

Summary: Rogan. Future fic. There's a new arrangement between the two.

AN: This chapter contains some provocative imagery. If you can't handle it, don't read it. This fic is rated M, folks, for chapters like this one. With that said, enjoy. . . .

She was swaddled, nearly mummified, in the lush softness of bed sheets that cost more than her first car had. She stretched, the fabric giving against her bare skin to keep her tensile limbs wrapped in warmth. Enjoying the feel of oxygen rushing through her well-rested muscles, she allowed herself one more leisurely stretch of her arms over her head before opening her eyes.

Logan took the opportunity of her movement to catch a loose end of the sheet and move in closer to her body. She squealed at the cool surface of his body as he wound himself around her—more encompassing and far more unyielding than the sheets as his arm clamped around her waist.

"You're freezing," she scolded, groaning. He seemed to take her words as an invitation to burrow his face into her neck, to warm his cold nose against her pulse point.

"You're the one who steals covers," he pointed out.

"So, steal back," she teased, doing her best to remove his cold fingers from her warm back.

"I was afraid to wake you up," he admitted. All playfulness escaped his voice, and she reached out to touch his cheek. The roughness that covered the soft skin of his face, as if trying to protect it from the world, didn't deter her. She grazed her fingers, keeping contact and soothing him despite the tough exterior. Gone were the attempts to keep her body in any kind of stasis. She let him mold her body against his to provide him with equilibrium.

"I'm glad you stayed," he looked into her eyes.

"Logan," she breathed, her regret rubbing him raw.

"It's okay," he closed his eyes to her protest. He couldn't watch her do this again. "I don't care about the circumstances."

"It isn't that I don't want to stay," she promised.

He searched her eyes for willingness and the sense of recklessness that she'd allowed herself to be carried away with back when it didn't matter who saw them or how many days on end she had lingered in his bed.

"So stay."

Her eyes widened. Clearly she thought his level of selfishness was unending. "For how long?"

"As long as you want to."

"It isn't about what I want right now," she whispered. "You know that. I still have obligations and appearances to maintain."

"You don't care about any of that, not really. And as long as he doesn't find out," he argued.

"What do you want, for me to take you home to my mother?" she asked, incredulous.

"Why not? She hates your husband, if you hadn't noticed," he informed.

She looked at him with caution. "How do you know that?"

Something in him sank. He was nearly sure it was the realization of what he had just revealed, hitting bottom as it tried to escape him. Was there a way to salvage this particular conversation?

"Am I wrong?"

"You've met my mother once, Logan. You can't claim to know her, or what she thinks about anything," she led.

"She pulled me aside, at the hospital," he said quietly, not giving any sign for expansion on his explanation.

"Excuse me?"

He sighed. "I didn't want to tell you—she realized I was your boss. She wanted me to help, to get you out of the situation. She made me promise to help you stay at the paper. That's all she wants. How could you expect your own mother not to notice your misery?"

She looked down. "This isn't your business," she said quickly.

"I remember you talking about her a lot. I got the impression that you two were quite close. I got the same feeling from her; that you used to be close."

She looked up at him. "We still are. I just, can't tell her everything like before."

"Rory, tell her what's going on," he begged.

"Why? So she can be so proud of who I've become?"

"I'll go with you. We can explain the situation. She just wants you to be happy, do you know how rare that is?"

"You think you know my family, but you have no idea what you're talking about," she said, now out of his arms and huddled in the sheets she'd pulled up around her torso.

"Then tell me."

She looked to him. "I need to get going. I have a function later, I need to get back to the house before the phone starts ringing, completely unanswered," she told him. He had no doubts that what she said was true—it was her willingness to leave him right now that he was unsure of.

He nodded. "I understand," he said stoically.

She opened her mouth to speak, but thought better of it. Maybe it was best, for her to change nothing. To keep him at an arm's length. Would it really have been better for her never to let him in at all, to disappear like she'd planned? Would he have moved on by now, as her resignation to live the life she'd agreed to grew?

He willed himself not to care as he remained underneath the covers, watching her slide out of the bed, modestly gathering her clothes. He knew she wished for a robe—which normally he provided for her in the middle of the night. She had no idea where he kept them, and she was in a hurry. He traced the curve of her body with his eyes, staring unabashedly. She turned around once her panties had been drawn up her legs and her shirt hung loosely over her torso—her cheeks flushing at the lust he couldn't hide in his eyes.

He wasn't about to apologize for wanting her. She couldn't dictate that.

"I have to go," she said simply.

He nodded, watching as she continued, her motions hasty as her skirt was suddenly fastened and she slipped out of the bedroom to gather her other belongings. He closed his eyes and leaned back against the pillows to wonder how his joy over her still being in his bed this morning had puttered out into this feeling of ambiguity. He had figured that she'd made a conscious decision to stay, after last night, after the grand gestures and the promising words. . . .

Words. His eyes snapped open as he remembered his decorating job, wishing to have enough time to jump up and rip every letter down before she had a chance to see them. He was seated bolt upright in bed, his heart pounding in his uncovered chest as she reappeared in his door frame, tears in her eyes and notebook paper in each hand. They fluttered out of her hands, slightly crumpled in the middle from her odd gripping on them. By the time they hit the floor, she was crawling onto the bed, over him, the sheets pressed between them as she kissed him hard.

She pulled back to stare into his eyes. He held nothing back, taking his hands to brush her hair back off her face.

"She knew I didn't want to marry Theo," she breathed. "She knows me better than anyone—we were best friends. When you and I started seeing each other, she knew we were just sleeping together, and she hated that. She hated it," she shook her head. "She thought I was better than that. So, after I broke it off, I told her that. I wanted her to see that I was the person she expected me to be—I told her that I was going to focus and get through school, and find someone who cared about me. She never really liked Theo, but I was so careful about him. I was too careful, and she saw that. We took everything really slow, and we were in for the long haul. I think she even knew, though I never told her, that I missed you. . . . She tried to talk me out of getting married, after he brought the pre-nup into it," she took an uneven breath as his hands ran up and down her back, soothing her.

"She knew about me?"

Rory nodded. "She just knew your first name," she shrugged. "Did she realize who you were, at the hospital?" her eyes went wide.

"No," he assured her. "Not at all. Or if she did, she didn't let on," he said.

"I mean, it wasn't me. To just sleep with someone, without any form of commitment. Everyone told me that. You told me that," she remembered.

"I didn't want you to be disappointed," he unlatched the catch on her skirt and slid the fabric back down her hips.

"I was never disappointed with you," she smirked as his lips found her neck. She'd shimmied out of her skirt, sliding further down his body as her hips ground into his groin through the covers. He gave a soft moan and affixed his hands to her hips, encouraging her motions.

"What about when this is all over?" he asked, now unbuttoning her blouse, feeling his body reacting to hers, needing her back under the covers with him. He let his eyes roll back in his head as she ground into him harder at the feel of his fingertips over her collarbone, dancing over the areas she wanted to feel his lips brush across.

"What about it?" she sat up quickly as he tossed the covers around her body, using them to draw her down to him once again. Her skin pressed into his lit him on fire, and he wanted to cry at the electricity they were generating. She had to know this was different—if nothing else just from having been with other people. He'd never been with someone that had such a hold on his nervous system. It wasn't that after all these years he still acted before he thought—it was that it only happened with her. If rationality existed in his world when she was naked and pressed up against him, he would know that talking about the outcome of their situation while having sex was a bad idea. But his body was skipping ahead of his thoughts, fighting out which was more important. And right now if they had to coincide, so be it.

"I want you with me, Rory. I don't want to be the guy that got you through a rough time, just to be cast back into the shadows after it's done. I never want to go three days wondering if I might see you again that week, or two weeks wondering if you're done with me for good," he used his teeth to skim down the skin over her neck, causing her to mewl under him.

"You mean that?" she asked, her level of focus waning as her breath became much more labored. He flipped her onto her back, taking his turn to grind her into the mattress using just his hips, his upper body dipping down solely to shower her with kisses.

"I need to hear you say it," he ran his hand up her body, cupping her breast and kneading it for a moment before his mouth moved down to extract more moans from her throat.

"I want you, God, I want," she struggled. His kisses grew hotter as he traveled down her body, his fingers already seeking out their prize. She contracted around his probing fingers, her legs wrapped around his back.

"I want to know you inside and out," he proved his point, stroking her body at both junctures, holding her with one hand over her stomach as he drove her slowly to the breaking point. "I want to give you everything," he kissed the inside of her thigh, making her literally shake in anticipation of where his lips would slide over to next. "I don't want you to doubt that," his warm breath came in a smooth line as he blew out slowly up to where she knew he was headed. His motions with his hands continued building, making her ache for more invasive measures all the while wishing he'd never stop.

"Logan, please," she raised her hips to toward him, and his eyes closed involuntarily at her sweet scent. He wrestled with his self control, wanting to give her what she wanted. He placed an open-mouthed kiss just above where his thumb kept a steadily building rhythm, and she gave a small whimper.

"Look at me," he requested.

Her bright blue eyes, now nearly black with lust, stared back at him. "I want to give you everything, too," she promised. "I'll stay, just please," she shuddered as her words were rewarded with his soothing tongue gliding over her very sensitized body, and she wrapped her legs tighter around his torso—not to control the shaking but to enhance it. As she quivered around him, he stilled, riding out the haze of pleasure she was engulfed in. When he kissed up her body, each stimulating brush of his lips causing her to giggle in overstimulation, she grabbed his shoulders to hold him steady.

"You mean it?" he whispered in her ear.

"If you really want me," she looked at him through thick lashes.

"I'm lost here without you," he nodded, dipping his head for another bruising kiss. Her previously sensitive legs wrapped back around his waist, holding him as close as she could get to him.

"One condition," she bit her lip.

"Name it," he said assuredly.

"No more accusing me of stealing covers anymore," she smiled.

"I'll just start fighting back," he promised, kissing her again. His private phone line began ringing, and he groaned, hoping to have all the time in the world to satisfy his more physical, and now very demanding, needs.

"You should answer it—it could be important," she bit her lip.

"All my calls are important," he growled. "That's why I have voice mail."

She entertained the notion of him not answering the phone, running her hands through his hair and tangling her tongue with his. But when she pulled back she gave him a look, which made him groan.

"I'll be right here when you get back," she promised.

"Fine," he grumbled as the phone continued to ring, grabbing his robe off the back of the closet door on his way out of his bedroom. Her words still rang in his head—about staying—and he wondered if it would take long to think of it as their bedroom. He picked up the still ringing line, still in awe that she'd agreed to staying with him. Was it even smart, with her needing a pristine slate going into what were sure to be rather messy divorce proceedings? He'd been taught to not let his emotions overtake his better judgment, but wasn't that what he was doing?

"Logan," he heard.

"Speaking," he confirmed.

"We've got what you need. Pictures, video, the works," came the investigator's voice.

His heart had literally never felt that light. "You're sure?"

"We don't make mistakes," he was assured. "But I don't think you should count your eggs just yet," he paused.

"What? I thought you said you have everything we need to proceed," he said.

"We're very thorough, Mr. Huntzberger, as I'm sure your father could tell you. We get it all—including the proof that he's having her watched. We got some pictures off his hard drive, of her getting into a car—a car that was easily traced back to your service."

His heart was in his throat. "You're sure?"

"Now, I don't know the situation," he began hesitantly. "I don't mean to presume what's going on, but more than likely they can't prove anything other than an employer providing a car for an employee. Is that the story you'd like us to help you build? I'm quite used to working with legal teams, skewing the vision of the pictures around a certain story," he offered.

"She is my employee," he managed. "She's a reporter at a paper I've just acquired. He wants her to stop working," he explained.

"I see. Very well. I'll do a bit more digging, see if how much damage control we can do on our end. He might not be the wiser," he assured him, clearly not believing the co-worker story.

"Thanks. For everything," he added.

Logan made his way back to the bedroom, to find her sitting up against the headboard. Her eyes lit up at the sight of him in the frame. She frowned as she saw the look on his face.

"What's wrong?"

"That was the investigator. He has our proof."

"Really? You mean I'm free?" she asked, completely surprised at the immediacy of the news. "Why aren't you happier? Logan, we don't have to worry now!"

He sat down on the edge of the bed. "They also found evidence, on his hard drive, of you getting into my car."

"Wh-what?" she paled. "No, that can't be," she shook her head.

"It was the car, from my service. It had to be in Hartford, when I let you use the car to get to the hotel," he shook his head.

"Well, they can't prove anything from that, can they?" she asked, the color draining from her face. He could feel his own blood running cold.

"I don't know," he answered honestly. "But for the time being, in case he really is suspicious, maybe," he closed his eyes, hating himself for what he was about to say. Hating the knowledge that she'd comply too readily. Hating the whole situation. "Maybe you should just go home for now."

Tears sprung from her eyes as she closed them. "I'm ready for this," she told him.

"I know, and I don't want you to go, but Rory, if he catches us," he reached out for her hand.

"It's just money," she spat out. "I don't need his money," she shook her head.

"It's not the money I care about—he could sue me and take what I have, I don't care, but if he finds out about this, you can be denied a divorce, because you've gone against your arrangement. It wouldn't be up to you, anymore, don't you see that? He's been cheating too, and if he wants to keep up appearances, he could use this against you."

Her eyes were wild with understanding. "I don't deserve you. And I don't want you wasting your money on any of this," she said defiantly. "I want to pay you back for the investigators, everything," she said.

He smiled sadly. "Not a chance," he brushed his lips over hers. "Come back when you can," he asked.

"It might be a few days," she nodded.

"I'll let you know, at the office, what the investigator finds out. Maybe after all of this settles down, once the paperwork is going through on the divorce," he led.

"I'll be back to steal your covers," she promised, sitting up on her knees to lean in to kiss him. "Walk me to the door?"

He kissed her back, holding her head against his for a long moment. He let out a breath, feeling like there was no oxygen left in his body when he was done. "Can I keep the letters?"

She smiled sadly. "They're as much yours as mine."

He watched her walk out of his door ten minutes later, her hair combed and all her clothes in their rightful place. To look at her, no one on the street—strangers with and without seeking camera lenses—would know what had transpired in the hours since she stepped foot into the lobby of his building. He wanted to shout form the rooftops that she had given her heart over to him, once and for all. Instead he took a letter off of his coffee table, reading the lines over and over again, letting the sound of her voice wash over him, in hopes that reading them aloud would make her magically appear next to him.

'I thought you were the rudest, most arrogant person in the whole of the world. The way you carried yourself, like you had some secret key to life. That you took one look at me and discarded me because I didn't know what you knew.

What you knew, and I've come to know since then, is that you were content to wander through life taking what was given you—knowing you'd find whatever would fulfill you when you stumbled upon it in the course of nature's path. You knew the path would lead somewhere, no matter which one you took it would lead where you were meant to go. I had spent all my time trying to make sure I was on the right path, hoping it would lead me to what I was supposed to be—not realizing I was missing the journey along the way.

You showed me how to enjoy part of path, when it's dark and scary—to immerse myself into that and have faith that I'll end up where I'm supposed to be—I just hope that our paths are meant to merge.'

He closed his eyes, willing her to remember her own words. He held the paper against his chest, wishing to look into her eyes and tell her that his path had been lit by her presence ever since that day they randomly met by that coffee cart. His only dark and scary moments existed in her absence—and he was counting on her to bring back the light.

XXXX

He had nearly drifted off to sleep, the words streaming into one another on the page as his eyes grew heavy when the phone rang. He saw her cell number staring up at him, and he snapped it open quickly.

"I'm going to visit my grandfather tomorrow," she announced. "I'd like to introduce you, if you can meet me up there," she said hesitantly.

"Rory," he sighed.

"Before you say no, remember it was you pleading with me to tell you more about my life, to let you in, to accept this. I want you in my life, and I want my grandpa to see that I'm happy. I don't know how much longer he'll—," she stopped talking suddenly. "I want him to see how happy you make me. And even if someone sees us, you're a friend of the family. It's okay for you to be there," she took a breath as she waited for his answer.

"What time?"


	16. Nothing Else Matters Right Now

Story: Another Round

Chapter Title: Nothing Else Matters Right Now

Summary: Rogan. Future fic. There's a new arrangement between the two.

Smoke billowed around him, alcohol moved through his veins like blood. The whiskey tasted like water, and his eyes stung from the second-hand smoke that filled the establishment. He was glad for the reaction, however, as another hour had passed since she'd promised to make contact. Tonight was the night that she was expected in Hartford—tonight was the night that she was to send a messenger with papers in her place. Divorce papers, documentation that left her husband no choice other than to grant her a contest-free way to freedom.

She'd been so happy when last he saw her—in the waiting room of the hospital. They'd gone in to see her grandfather together, her hopes were to improve his health by showing him that she was happy. They'd held hands openly; she'd told Richard that things were going to be different when he came home. The elder man had shed tears of elation that his granddaughter seemed to be reanimated, full of life and hope again. Her sense of promise had come in the form of a phone call from Logan's investigative team, assuring him that the only concerns March had when dealing with their rival firm was of the political nature. She'd kissed him, deconstructing and rebuilding him with her certainty of their impending future, easing away from him as she promised to contact him as soon as the deed was done.

"Do you think that I don't love my wife?"

Logan's head swiveled as if being turned by a blow to his lower jaw. "Now that you mention it, no, I don't believe you do."

"You mean you actually considered our life when you were fucking her?" he asked. "I thought adulterous affairs were supposed to be much more simple-minded than that."

"You should know," Logan took another drink. "I'm sorry, are we here to discuss what happens in my bed or yours?"

Theodore March simply smiled. It was a warm gesture that froze him to the marrow of his bones. He pulled out two cigars and offered one to Logan.

"I don't smoke," he held his hand up.

"A man never turns down a Cuban, besides, I'm celebrating, see, I just found out that my wife is expecting."

Logan's stomach dropped out, much as if Theo had slugged his fist up into his diaphragm. His eyes watered, his breath stopped, all muscles in his torso seized up.

"Is this news? Why, I'd have thought she might have mentioned it to you. No?" he asked, and when Logan had no response after a moment, he shook his head and gave a laugh. "Funny, it seemed to me that the two of you had diluted each other into thinking you were in love."

"When did this happen?" he asked, finding his voice from the depths of his thoughts.

"A week ago—the day after we heard about Richard."

Logan's eyes snapped up. The man seated so blithely next to him had cruelty of tongue down to an art form. "Richard?"

He tsked. "She really is fickle with her affection, isn't she? Richard passed, I'm afraid, nearly a week and a half ago. You mean to tell me she couldn't so much as sneak in a late night phone call to the man she thought she was so good at concealing?"

"Why are you doing this?"

Theodore straightened his spine. "It's time you stop putting ideas in my wife's head. Her notice to you was more than fair—I understand the nature of your involvement is lengthy, but after all that's happened with her, did you truly believe you'd get her in the end?"

"How long have you known?"

"Since we were engaged. I will admit, at first, I thought she was involved with multiple men—especially since she'd told me that she dated you briefly in college. But after I followed her a few times, each time to the same address—a few times even when you didn't seem to be there—or at least you didn't walk her down," he shrugged. "Perhaps at times you were just more gentlemanly than others."

"Did she tell you she was leaving you?"

"Multiple times," he tossed the thought aside with a flick of his hand, also signaling another round for the two of them to the bartender. "Funny, she almost looked like she meant it that last time. Telling me that she knew I'd been unfaithful, telling me she deserved better," he paused. "It was two days later, we had met at the funeral home and she told me she was pregnant," he smiled. "Let me guess, you're hoping against hope it's yours?"

Logan narrowed his eyes. "I would expect she could be fairly certain of the paternity. It wasn't as if I," he began, but failed to finish.

"Were the only one?" he sneered.

"Saw her often," he supplied just as snidely.

"I'm sure you were a welcome diversion—I suppose women like stability more than men do, hmm? I mean, I'm fine with a different girl every day of the week, but women, they do like something they can count on. Like a man who's promised to be faithful now that she's carrying his child—as long as she affords him the same pleasure."

"You think you can just pick up from here with her, pretending that you're a family now?"

"See, we are a family now. I've made sure of that, and now I'm here to make sure you are aware of fact that she'll no longer be requiring the services you've been affording her."

"So, she's left you, and you're trying to make me angry, in hopes that if I don't return her calls she'll come running after you?"

Theo pulled out his cell phone and offered it up. "You don't believe me? Go ahead, call her. This should be most entertaining." Again, he waited for Logan to respond to his measures, slipped his phone back in his pocket, and shrugged. "Don't worry, I'm sure there are plenty of other men's wives out there for a man with your bank account to seduce."

"You're killing her, you know that? Parts of her die each day she has to suffer through the experience of dealing with you."

"On the contrary, she's teeming with life," he slapped Logan on the back as he stood up. Logan moved to stand, to block his exit, but Theo laughed again. "It's over. Enjoy your drink, it's on me. The least I could do."

He threw money on the bar and turned to leave. Logan fell back onto his stool, wishing to wake up from this nightmare.

XXXX

Her voicemail inbox was full. She'd had her desk at work cleaned out. He went to her building, under the guise of renting the apartment she'd left as planned, but it left no real trace of her, just as she'd promised. She'd been merely a visitor in that home—he couldn't feel her there in the least. He sank down in the plush leather of his office chair, unable to find the feeling of accepting this as their end, despite the fact that this path she'd led him down had truly dead ended with her disappearance. He couldn't trust the other man's words as truth—he just had to know what was keeping her away.

Unable to come up with a better contact point, he picked up the phone and dialed. The sound of his raspy voice seemed to take her from upbeat to paranoid.

"I'm sorry to call like this," he said.

"I just didn't expect to hear from you at all anymore. It's over, isn't it?"

"That's why I've called you. I can't—she's not been in contact with me at all."

"Should she be?"

"Lorelai, what's going on with her?"

There was a long pause on her end of the line. "She's doing okay."

"I don't believe that."

"You want proof?" her voice was a bit lighthearted, but he supposed she was merely taken aback.

"Yes. I want to see her."

"That's not a good idea."

He banged his fist down on his desk. "Is this about the pregnancy?"

"How did you--?" she began.

"Please, just tell me," his voice was waning again. He needed sleep, but he found no rest. Lying in the dark was as fruitless for his sleep as lying down in rush hour traffic in the middle of Times Square to get a nice little nap. When he found himself in silence it was only her he pictured, only her voice in his head. Her promises, her love. His silent torture.

"She'd had a rough time lately," she croaked, her voice almost breaking. "First with Dad," she began.

"I was so sorry to hear about Richard. I just found out last night," he sighed. "Can we do this in person?"

"I don't think," she began.

"I can come to you," he offered.

"No. I'll come to you," she said quickly, getting him off the phone as quickly as she could after getting an address and a time. He was sentenced merely to wait, as ever.

XXXX

She looked uncomfortable, but not out of place. Her dress shimmied and shimmered in the soft lights of the fine restaurant. Her high heels gave her a shape so similar to that of her daughter, had he looked at her from the ground up, he'd have been set at ease immediately. But there was something in her eyes, something that set him awash in fear. She was not here to bridge the gap between him and the woman he loved. She might not even be willing to point him in the direction of that bridge.

"Thanks for meeting me," he nodded.

"Logan," she nodded back and sat down with the help of the waiter, from whom she ordered a martini before looking at the anxiety-ridden face of the man she was to share a meal with. "I shouldn't be here."

"Which is why I'm so grateful."

She smiled. "I don't know how to thank you, for whatever you've done. To be able to talk to my daughter again," she shook her head.

"You've been in contact with her?"

Her eyes flashed up. "I assumed you knew," she queried.

"No," he swallowed, feeling as if his heart were being forced down his throat. "No, I didn't. Everything was very abrupt."

Lorelai nodded. "Before I can tell you any more, I need to know something."

He took a sip of his drink. "Anything."

"Rory has filled me in on much of what's gone on in her life over the last five years," she paused, "but, as honest as she's suddenly become, I can't help but think that there's something she's left out."

"What's that?"

"You."

His eyes met hers, which caused a chain reaction that deflated his lungs and caused his heart to miss one or more beats. "Me?"

"I know you're her boss, but it's more than that, isn't it? You didn't meet just when her paper was acquired by your corporation."

"No," he conceded.

"You were involved?"

"Yes," he met her eyes.

"You loved her?" her voice broke.

"I do," he nodded, still unable to rely on involuntary body movement.

"She didn't tell me, but the way you were so involved, the looks you two shared at the hospital," she began. "How serious was it?"

"She was supposed to be with me," he admitted. "We went to the hospital, two weeks ago, and told Richard. She was leaving Theo and coming to me. She promised to come to me as soon as she'd done it. I haven't heard from her since," he took another long, slow drink of the cold alcohol. He could feel the icy burn down his throat as her icy blue eyes warmed on him as well.

"I don't know what to say," she hesitated.

"I do," he spat. "Our plans died with Richard," he shook his head.

"Logan," she winced.

"Sorry, I respected him, I know you both must be quite upset," he held up his hand in apology. "I'm sorry."

She nodded. "Rory has had a difficult two weeks. But if you haven't heard from her, how did you know about the pregnancy?"

He looked up, hatred filling his eyes as he even though of the conversation from the night before. "Theo paid me a visit."

"Damn," she whispered. "Look, I am not supposed to be here like this, with you—Rory didn't want to put this on you, I'm sure," she bit her lip. "But I think there are some things you should know. Things I can't be the one to tell you," she reached out for his hand.

"What things?"

"I think it's time you saw Rory."


	17. Can You Go Another Round?

Story: Another Round

Chapter Title: Can You Go Another Round?

Summary: Rogan. Future fic. There's a new arrangement between the two.

AN: Thank you, thank you, thank you for being so patient. This chap has been almost finished for a week, but then I went on internet-less vacay… but I'm back, baby! You guys rock, for supporting this fic so much. And this isn't the last chapter, I still have a couple more left up my sleeve. But if you were following the lyrics of Foo, you'd know that, huh? Seriously, go buy In Your Honor if you don't have it. Enjoy!

He was out of his element. He'd become her captor, her willing victim, unable to free himself if he wanted to. He didn't know what she would unveil to him, but fear gripped his viscera like an infection.

He used the silence in the car to ponder how he was going to be able to face the love of his life, the woman who was now pregnant with the child of another man. How he'd find the strength to stand as her eyes cut into him, not to mention how he'd find the strength to wish her well with her decisions and walk back out of her life.

They'd simply been through too much. He hated to think that either of them had done more damage to the other. He used to feel guilty, letting her be this unnamed constant in his life. Pain had long since eaten up all the guilt that lingered within him as he thought of how he'd let her flit in and out, as if she meant nothing—never righting her assumption that he could care less if she came to him of a night or not.

He always cared. It bothered him when she called him an insensitive frat boy, nothing could numb him when she broke his heart and left him to his own devices, and he broke more each and every single time he opened his door to welcome her in. He should have never been so damned presumptuous; assuming his luck would never run out. And now he knew it was never luck that had brought her to him. He'd simply just run out of his allotted time.

It was the sound of her turn signal and the soft vibration of the car decelerating that snapped him out of his bout of self-loathing. There was still another twenty miles to Hartford off the main highway, but still here she was pulling them off—he could practically hear the speech she must be gearing up to give him. How she would sooner kill him than let him hurt Rory any more than he had, how there were certain facts that he had to come to grips with, perhaps a soliloquy on the nobility in letting to of the one you love the most. He could feel the burning in the back of his throat, as if he might be sick at any given moment.

But she didn't stop; she was creeping along at an ungodly slow pace, which he noted finally to be the posted speed limit. She finally cut the engine in front of a well-lit diner and unbuckled her seat belt.

"I'm really not very hungry," he shook his head politely.

"That's understandable," she shrugged as she opened her car door. "You coming?"

"We're really going into a diner?"

Lorelai smiled. "You want to see Rory, right?"

"What's she doing in there?" he pointed to the window. "I thought you were taking me to Hartford," he began, realizing there was much more than he didn't know.

"Well, welcome to Stars Hollow," Lorelai got out of the car and waited for him to do the same. Once he'd joined her on the sidewalk, walking the tightrope between not knowing and knowing too much again. He was so used to it, he almost didn't mind knowing he was working without a safety net.

"Lorelai," he called out before she reached the door, causing her to turn in concern.

"You okay?"

"She really doesn't know I'm coming?" he hesitated.

"It's okay," she promised.

He nodded and took the small rise up into the building. He looked around the partially filled room. The strong smell of coffee washed over him as he focused in on her profile. She was shaking her head, looking quite amused at whatever the man behind the counter was saying to her. He couldn't quite make out their conversation over the dull buzz of the other patrons' words. It wasn't until he was right behind her that he heard the gist of what the man was trying to convey to her.

"Your body can't heal unless you eat actual nutrients," he groaned.

"They say actual studies have proven that to be fact," he added, wondering how she'd not known until upon hearing his voice filling the air around her that he was in the same room. Wondering how he'd gone so long without sharing oxygen with her.

Her eyes went wide—with some unnamed emotion—as she turned to face him. Her gaze did not go to her mother, whom she no doubt knew had brought him here based on their shared arrival time. She did not blink as if to test his ability to be a mere mirage in whatever desert she might find herself in.

"Hi."

The silence that surrounded them suddenly made him wonder if his ears were playing tricks on him. He'd seen those movie moments, when the long lost loves meet up again in a crowded venue—right before the music swells on the soundtrack—all is eerily silent. Perhaps he'd seen one too many. Clearly he'd been through one too many of something.

It was her mother's voice that again fished him back up into reality, her authoritative voice offering up an office space over the diner, for them to talk if Rory would like. He didn't remember climbing stairs, he didn't remember standing at the ready to assist her should she suddenly be in too fragile a state to carry herself up a flight of stairs, but somehow there they were, alone once again. On neutral ground, he tried to assure himself, for the first time in their existence.

"I would have come to you," she said finally, her lips rolling against one another in nervousness.

"I want to believe that," he remained standing despite her immediate easing into an armchair that looked out of place in the space. Like someone had once tried to create a home where it shouldn't have existed. "It's just so hard to rationalize."

"But you're here," she offered, as if it were some great feat. He wondered what his reward would be.

"I had to know," he swallowed hard, too fast, wincing over the way she was drawing this out. She seemed happy to see him—not in the lust-filled, I only have a few hours and I want to make the most of this way that she normally was. This was a different, relieved energy that made him suspend all he knew to be true just long enough to take her into his arms.

Her cheek melded into his shoulder, her hands tight around his waist. These moments instigated his loss of constriction, his beginnings of belief. "What happened?"

"I just needed some time," she worked for breath, and he wondered if being near him had the opposite effect on her. Could this be too much for her? "There's so much that happened, I don't know where to start."

"I'd say the beginning, but I don't know where that is anymore, do you?" he brought his fingers up the side of her cheek, letting his thumbs slowly brush back toward her jaw.

"Grandpa died," she managed, her tears wracking her body, and he wondered how good for the baby this could be. He tried to soothe her, whispered loving words, held her close, but nothing worked.

"I know," he finally said, "I'm so sorry. If you would have called me, I would have been there."

"I couldn't," she sniffled and withdrew back far enough to look into his eyes. "Mom told you?"

"Theo came to see me this morning," he watched as the shock registered first on her mouth, then her eyes, as if it filled her from the bottom up.

"No," she breathed. "Why?"

"He wanted my congratulations," he had no choice to let her go as he remembered the state of things.

"No, Logan, no," she reached out for his arm, wanting his comfort, his forgiveness, he wasn't sure. He just couldn't be sure of any of it anymore.

"Was he lying?"

Her eyes filled up again, but no tears fell. "Tell me what he said."

"He didn't tell you?" he asked in anger, unable to help himself. There were levels of cruelty even he couldn't take. Especially from someone as angelic as her.

"How could he?" she searched into his eyes. "I haven't seen him in days."

Hope tugged at him. "He told me you were pregnant, that it was his. That you'd known since Richard died, and when I realized he couldn't make that up," his voice wavered.

"Did he tell you he didn't even bother to come?" she sniffed.

"He—what?"

"I showed up at the Hartford house after the showing," she began. "To tell him it was over. I was going to wait, I still had time, but I just realized that I needed you with me, I couldn't deal with all of that without you there, and I had to get it over with," she closed her eyes and sat back down on the arm of the leather chair. "We argued for hours, him telling me I wasn't strong enough to leave, telling me there was no way you gave a shit about me, so I… I told him," she looked up into his brown eyes. "I told him I was pregnant with your baby. I'd just found out that morning."

"My …."

"I got in the car, I was going to drive back to New York to find you, but I started to get really dizzy, and I got scared, so I pulled off at Mom's house," she sobbed again. Loss sunk over him like a heavy blanket, a heat enveloping him like he was encased in fire.

"By the time they got me to the hospital, they told me it was probably likely to all the stress I'd endured in such a short amount of time, that it happened all the time," she reiterated all the empty words. "It took a couple of days, and I just didn't know how to tell you," she let him hold her tight, crushingly so, but there were no words of comfort he could offer.

"I'm sorry I wasn't stronger," her voice was so distant, her melancholy consuming.

"This isn't your fault," he loosened his grip in sudden fear for hurting her, as if it might make a bit of difference now. He couldn't go back and fix what had happened. There was no grief he could help her avoid now.

No amount of money could cut through the pain in her eyes—the same that no doubt coursed through her every last capillary in her delicate body. It was the same pain he was struggling to remain above right this very moment.

As her exhaustion seemed to have no effect on her tears, he had to wonder if even love could help her. He'd tried and failed before. He couldn't save her, and for that his own tears began to fall.

"I should have come back for you first—I keep going over and over what I could have done differently," she confided as neither bothered to wipe dampness off their cheeks, even as the sharp sting of salt fell between their lips.

"Everything should have been different," his pain and frustration had no where to go but at her.

"I know that," she swallowed hard as her eyes narrowed.

"I mean it," he continued before she could break the train of thoughts headed out of him, "going back over everything, all these years, every last time I let you leave in the middle of the night, every last time I didn't tell you I wanted you to stay, and every time you never told me you weren't free to stay! Your goddamn pride and self-pity, for marrying him!"

Despite his best, not to mention loudest, efforts, she got in edgewise.

"I get it, God! I don't need a run-down of my sins; I've already received my punishment! Do you know what this feels like?"

"What about me? I'm not allowed to be angry? You aren't the only one that lost something here, Rory. All I ever did was love you—I was trying to protect you; you made that impossible!"

"I can't count on other people," her eyes flickered, he hoped with shame. "All my life, I've had to count on myself."

They stood facing off in the room time seemed to have forgotten. They were the only two objects not covered in a fine layer of dust. Their tears had stopped, leaving the feeling of self-induced drought behind. His retinas stung even in the dim light, and his bottom lip began to feel as if it might crack open in the slightest breeze.

"Maybe this time you should have."

It was his turn to leave her watching his exit; wondering if he was just going to count to thirty in the hallway before rushing back to her arms. But for as many times as he'd wanted for her to return, it was just the sound of the bell jingling to announce his departure that she heard as she emerged into the hallway above the diner to check.

XXXX

He was at a fucking bus stop. Granted, a charming bus stop in a picturesque town, but still. He'd never felt so confined to last resorts in his life.

There were only so many ways out of this town, and his driver had informed him of a pile up in the city would cause him to be way later than even the lowest form of transportation. But right now if it got him out of this place, a town that seemed infused with every good quality he ever saw in Rory, then it was worth it.

"You don't look like most guys I ever sit next to on the bus."

"How'd you know I was here?" he didn't turn to look at her as she let her hesitation keep her at the edge of the bench.

"Small town. It takes any piece of news about 2.7 seconds to circulate the span of the town."

"That's why you let him keep you in big cities?"

She had no response to that, but she did move to sit next to him. He finally looked to her as she gave a long, almost relief-filled sigh.

"What'll you do now?"

"I think I'll stay around here for a while. Mom thinks I should take some time to really let myself heal."

"But you're free now," he reminded.

"I know."

"You have to go back to work."

Disappointment rained over her. "You think that's best?"

"You aren't the type to wallow or put off," he said simply. "And you love New York, you love your job," he could feel the anxiety building up through his chest.

"But I have no where to live, no resources," she began. "And the pay at an independent paper isn't really enough to pay for a crappy studio in the dangerous end of town," she continued.

"So move in with me."

Her eyes went wide. "What?"

"Plus, I think you'll find that having a major corporation take over a fledgling independent will significantly increase the payroll fund."

"Logan," she held up a hand, wishing him to slow down. She had been surrounded by those not wishing to tax her thoughts.

"If you don't want to start over, if you can't handle just being with me, no games and with strings," he warned.

"I didn't expect," she swallowed, leaned forward, and kissed him hard. His hand held the back of her head against his, not knowing if he was kissing her goodbye or welcoming her truly into his life for the first time.

"I want to tell you yes," she smiled, setting shockwaves through his body. "But I have to do some things on my own. I can't have you providing for me, I need to know I can do it all myself. Even for just a little while."

"We're done?" he asked, no clear idea as to what it was she was asking for.

"Only if you don't ask me out," she stood up, leaving him alone on the bench. "I'll see you at work on Monday?"

"Assuming I make it back to New York alive," he nodded.

She gave him the sweetest smile he'd ever had cast his way, before turning to walk back through the trees toward her mother's home. For once promise filled him in a way he'd never known. They had a clear slate, and perhaps this time they'd stay out of their own way.


	18. I Will Bother You Down and Out

Story: Another Round

Chapter Title: I Will Bother You Down and Out

Summary: Rogan. Future fic. There's a new arrangement between the two.

AN: You guys, your support for this fic, has been astounding. I will tell you there are only two more chapters left, and I do hope to be more focused in getting them to you sooner rather than later. I've enjoyed this fic so much, and those of you who've read a few of my fics probably know that I tend to drag my feet in finishing a fic… especially those I enjoy so much. I hate to see them end. But they have to sometime, and this one was set to a limit based on lyric lines. But you all do rock, for reading, reviewing, and letting me take my dear, sweet time. I hope it's all been worth it.

* * *

He felt reborn. Walking into the building he'd viewed for most of his life as a prison of his father's making—or at least maintaining—it was as if he'd slipped into someone else's skin. Gone was his overwhelming sense of dread and apathy.

Today would not be like every other day he could remember. Opening his eyes this morning, he saw but one thing missing in the ramshackled apartment, which held no milk to moisten the sandy remnants of the box of cereal he pulled off the shelf. He only had clean shirts because the laundry service had brought back his starched and pressed suits. Living alone, he'd never paid attention to what letting things run low would do to his comfort level. But perhaps, just maybe, after today, he'd have reason to take notice of even the most mundane of details. For her.

There were signs of her as soon as the elevator opened. There was a half-eaten donut by the keyboard of the front receptionist. There were several people waiting to get a hold of the coffee pot in the break room. Her desk was uninhabited, but color-coded stacks of folders lined it, and people were moving about with a purpose—and not just because the boss was walking through to his office.

He didn't even wince at the thought that he was the boss.

"Good morning, Mr. Huntzberger," Grace stood up, ready to walk and talk her way alongside him as she read off the rolling register that was his daily schedule. He didn't like to be apprised the night before; he didn't like to take work home with him, and he hated sounding over rehearsed for anything. He did his best when speaking extemporaneously, as his enthusiasm came from a place of never knowing what would happen next. He thrived off of what could be.

He looked at her after she got done with the list of conference calls and proposal meetings and the obligatory kiss-ass cocktail hour. His thoughts were already on how to cut short, delay via rain check, or otherwise alter the plans that would make him run long or miss his chance to check in with Rory.

"Did you hear me, Mr. Huntzberger?" Grace asked, looking as if she wanted to wave her pencil in front of his eyes. Instead her foot gave a tap of impatience, which earned her a smile.

"I did, as always. Thank you," he smiled genuinely.

"And there's nothing more you need me to do?" she inquired.

"Such as?" he cocked his head to one side, not even bothering to touch the cup of coffee she'd set out for him—no doubt with the exact blend of sugar and creamer to make him not wince at the extra-strength blend a certain staffer brewed the beverage to.

"Well, anything. Normally you don't tend to just sit there, smiling when I tell you that you have a stockholder meeting on the same day that you have to approve grant proposals."

He gave a laugh at her candor. "How was your weekend, Grace?"

"My weekend, Sir?"

"Yes, you know, those precious hours that you aren't at my bidding? Surely you don't sneak back in here and reorganize the files, do you?"

"I don't usually even leave the Village," she admitted. "I like not having to get on the subway."

He frowned. "You know, we could arrange for a car to pick you up and drop you off, if you'd like. Company loyalty should be good for something," he offered.

She looked to the side, as if she were expecting for someone to have joined them. "That's really not necessary," she said with a level of detachment that was normal in his professional world. He sighed, realizing that the difference he felt might take longer than a day to translate into the rest of his world.

"I'm just going to set up Conference A for your 11 AM meeting," she said, hopeful to take her leave.

"Thank you, Grace," he nodded. Once again alone, he swiveled in his desk chair, taking the opportunity to overlook the city. A place that in his youth had meant limitless opportunities—for trouble, for excitement, for pleasure. Once his father began to see him as nothing more than his successor, it became a place he was sent with greater frequency to meet, impress, and impose what would be his colleagues, his underlings. Men old enough to be his father, he would learn from, he would learn to command. In training to emulate a man he wanted only to be different than.

The city had the same gleam. It could once again be his playground; their playground. Central Park now looked to be a place for romantic lunches and moon-lit walks in the first snow of the year. Each and every block contained a new gem that would entertain them for an hour, an evening, however long they wished to run about the city before retiring back home.

Stretching his legs, he stood up and moved to the door to find that Grace had been true to her word. She wasn't at her desk, but after his attempt at genial conversation, he'd probably just frightened her into triple checking that all the pads of paper were at exact intervals and the pens that lay over them at exact forty-five degree angles.

But then, she'd not been hired because her level of whimsy.

When his eyes lifted from his right-hand's desk, he finally saw what he'd waited for. Her head was bent in studious labor—the length of her ponytail curling around her neck. Her right hand flowed seemingly straight across the paper in long, left-to-right lines. She looked down at her hand only briefly, as if to check that she was staying between the pre-ruled lines. She was fresh on a lead, some story idea she would come to him with as soon as she got her initial sell down—taking no chances of her perfect memory missing a detail.

He took a seat on the a corner of her desk that he had to slide the least amount of paper off of and peered at what he could see of her notes.

"I'm sorry, I must be in the wrong office," he mused, causing her to look up at him suddenly, her hand moving to do its best to spread out over the words she's been writing with such purpose. "Because I know none of my employees, nay my greatest reporter, would be using company time and resources to be working on personal projects."

A twinkle lit up her eyes. "I see it's time for my visit from the pot," she sighed.

"Are you suggesting I'm not all business from nine to five?"

"I have eye-witness, first-hand evidence to the contrary," she raised an eyebrow.

"Well, then I guess I'll just have to bribe you to keep quiet. Tell me, Ms. Gilmore," he said her name as if trying it out for the first time, thrilled to know her surname was no longer a divider between them, "what exactly do you want?"

Her eyes darted down to her now unbanded left hand. He crossed his arms over his chest as his leg swung haphazardly against the desk. "Rory?"

She clicked her tongue, hesitation rolling off of her. "Do you have a lunch meeting?"

"I was hoping you might agree to a story pitch with me, down the street at that little bistro. The one next to the costume shop?" he placed his hand over hers.

"I have a few lined up," she bit her lip. "But I'm more anxious to run a few other ideas by you as well."

He leaned in, not to attempt to pry into her personal papers, but to get as close as he could to her skin. "I wasn't really planning on discussing much work, Ace."

She shifted in her seat, pulling away as her eyes scanned to get a headcount of those who had turned in order to witness their tête-à-tête. "It's a little early for lunch, Logan," she muttered under her breath.

He sighed. "You think I'm letting my true feelings out? Because what I want to do is kiss you. You know how long it's been since I've felt your lips on mine?" his voice wasn't loud enough for anyone else to hear, but just the right volume for her to hear each and every delicious syllable. They sank into her body and rose back up to show through her skin in the form of a light pink blush.

Her eyes closed.

"Are you worried about appearances? Because the society set knows you're on your way to being single—I hear tell there was a headline in the lifestyles section of four different rags," he paused, "none of mine, of course."

"I saw those," she said dismissively. "I just thought that you wouldn't want anyone to think you're dating one of your employees."

"Are we dating? Because if we are, I'll get on the PA system and announce it to the whole building," he sat up straighter, his joy only on the rise.

"Logan," she smiled, shaking her head. "What has gotten into you?"

"You," he stood up. "So, lunch?"

She nodded firmly. "Lunch. Shall I meet you there?"

He smiled softly. "As much as I'd love to escort you, yeah. I have meetings all morning, but I promise they won't run late. I'll pull a Houdini if they do," he gazed on her with all earnest.

"I believe you. Now go, and leave me to my illicitly taken personal time," she teased, shooing him away with one hand.

--&--

The soft lighting and romantic music that surrounded him contrasted to the point of physical shock with the near sterile, fluorescent-lit room filled with men screaming to be heard over the others he'd just come from. He could almost take the days filled with this kind of monotony, if he knew they'd be punctuated with such retreats. He needed to be reminded that corporate America was comprised of type-A men, but at least they were angry men that (he hoped) had equally beautiful women waiting for them somewhere that made them feel human for at least ten minutes a day, just like she did for him.

"I'm late," he cringed.

"I was too," she assuaged his guilt. Her nose scrunched when it was clear he didn't believe her. "Swear to God, ask the waiter. I got held up, I won't go into great detail, but there was a struggle with a fax machine, and one of us didn't come out of it unscarred."

He laughed. "Sounds traumatizing. Need a drink?" he put his hand up to signal a waiter, but she shook her head.

"I've got something fruity coming for me and a scotch neat coming for you," she provided.

"You're an angel," he breathed out, his hand immediately moving to loosen his tie. Somehow it always managed to feel as if it automatically tightened itself throughout the course of a day.

"It's the least I could do," she said, and he noticed it immediately. Her hesitation. "How was your meeting?"

"The usual suspects, the usual arguments, the usual compromises struck before blows came about," he smirked. "I would much rather hear about your day—it tends to be infinitely more entertaining to hear about."

She smiled softly, her eyes rounding to him. "I entertain you, that's it?"

"That's it," he nodded.

"That's all I'm worth to you, a few giggles at the irony that befalls me?" her eyes twinkled, full of something lighter than she'd been made of for the past few years.

"Your worth is immeasurable," he picked up her hand and kissed the back of it. "The amusement is just chump change."

"Logan," she sighed. He squeezed her hand, not wanting the cautious tone of her voice to grow into an unwilling sentence.

He shifted closer to her, as the waiter came to set their respective drinks in front of them. As he focused on her and the way she stared at the new additions to the table, everything else fell away.

"I was going to ignore the fact that the personal items you were working on were rental agreements for apartments in Connecticut," he sought out each of her fingers, one at a time, running the length of them with his thumb.

"Logan," she said with greater determination, looking up from the blue liquid that had been placed before her. "I told you there were a few things I wanted to talk to you about."

"You're sounding very practical, Ace. You know I frown on talks of practicalities," he made a half-hearted attempt at levity, but the ache in his chest made it sound like he was choking on the words.

"I have no place to live, I have to be practical," she sat up straighter.

"What about the New York apartment? Surely you've got a grace period," he looked her up and down in concern.

"He had all my things delivered to my grandmother's house yesterday, like Grandma needs that right now, she can hardly get out of bed most days," she fingered her napkin with her free hand.

"My God," he breathed. "So, where are you staying?"

"A hotel," she dismissed.

"Move in with me," he urged, bring his offer back up again.

Pain covered her face, but still she spoke. "I can't move in with you."

"Give me one good reason," he couldn't let go of her hand.

"I can't move in with you because I have nowhere else to go," she replied readily. She'd been thinking about this—he could see the bullet points in her eyes.

"That's fine, I want you to move in with me because I want you everywhere I am."

She shook her head. "We're not ready for that."

"Yes, we are. I am," he urged, wanting her only to reply in kind.

But she didn't say anything. For a good long moment, all she did was stare into his eyes. Someone had let the cold, hard world into the soft, romantic atmosphere.

"You aren't."

"It's not what you're thinking," she was on the verge of tears.

"No?" he asked, his anger building up in him.

"No," she squeezed his hand now. "It's not that I don't want to be with you, I do," she soothed.

"Moving to Connecticut isn't wanting to be with me. It means you'll be living over an hour away from me, not working for me," he began.

"I can still work for you," she corrected. "I want to work at home, and send in my articles via email, I can even do all the formatting, I have all the software on my computer," she began.

"I don't care about formatting," he cut her off. "Do you even hear yourself? How are you going to write up-to-date, cutting-edge pieces on things relevant to the world our readers live in, when you're living in Hartford?"

"Not Hartford," she bit her lip.

"Then where…?"

"Stars Hollow."

"Rory, you can't be serious. I can't follow you, I can't live in Stars Hollow. It's not even a city, and without the sudden invention of a teleporter," he could feel his arguments unraveling in his mind, just as the hopes he'd woken up with this morning unraveled in his heart.

"I know," she said, in a way that he believed. "It's not forever."

"It's a quick fix, to something that isn't broken."

"I'm broken," she cried. "I haven't been proud of my own actions for years! I've been trying to figure out what happened, what went wrong, what day it was that I woke up and wasn't me anymore," she took a jagged breath. He wished she'd stop, take a sip, catch her breath, but she kept on. "I just know that I'm not gonna find myself here, in New York. The person I was, that started in Stars Hollow, and it's just where I need to be. It's just temporary," she promised.

"Everything's temporary," he shook his head, wanting to be anywhere else right now. He began to realize he could handle the angry business men—for that he'd been trained. He had no idea how to handle this one thing he wanted the most. Keeping her close, or attempting to, would only push her away.

"You deserve the person I was," she was so close to him now that he felt the heat of her leg as it brushed his, he could smell only her instead of the pungent floral smell that had overwhelmed him as he came in, thanks to fresh gardenias at the center of every table.

"If this is about what I deserve, or what I want, it's just to be with you. But you're making these decisions without regard to me, so don't play it like you're doing me any favors."

He didn't know how to handle her at all.

"You can come up on weekends, we can take things slow," she began her counter offers.

"Slower than seven years?" he was at a loss.

"I don't expect you to wait for me. But if you want me, this doesn't have to be the end of anything."

"Let's not do this, Rory. We're adults, and if you're leaving, then you should just say so. We've been through too much for too long to pussyfoot around this."

"I'm moving to Stars Hollow," she said with finality. "You can accept my articles on a piece by piece continuum, if that's what is best for the paper; if you're concerned about my quality."

"I'm not concerned about your writing," he assured her. "Your job will be the same as it was before I got there."

She let go of his hand at long last. "So, what about us?"

"If you haven't been yourself, what were we?"

Her hesitation was the final stroke to the picture she'd been painting. His world had been a mirage in the desert—she just a veiled creature. Stripped down, she was more human than mythological. His desire for reality was making her disappear. He wondered if he'd vanish, too.

"Logan, if it hadn't been for you, I wouldn't have this opportunity. You've given me everything, but I'm the only one who can fix this. You can have any role you'd like," she bit her lip, knowing it wasn't true.

"Then stay. Be yourself with me."

"I don't expect you to understand what it's like, to only remember a person you were proud to be," her lower lip quivered.

He drew her in close, tasting her lips, her head between his hands. She gave of herself effortlessly, giving him the satisfaction of her not being the one to pull away. He just couldn't bring himself to do it either.

"You know where to find me," was the only response that didn't betray what they'd been to one another.

She nodded and leaned back, taking her purse in her hands despite her untouched drink. "I should go."

He watched as she fell away from him. She put her hand on the linen-covered table, her nails not even making a click due to dampening. She gazed at him expectantly, not ready for this to be their end, despite her self-inflicted desperate measures.

"I know where to find you, too," he smiled softly at her, despite the constriction of his heart. He was handing her walking papers.

"I love you."

He nodded, accepting her words, but his likewise burned up in his throat. He took a long drink of scotch to suffocate the smoke, but all it did was stoke the fire in her absence. He sat and ordered another, leaving her tropical getaway in a glass next to his empty glass, as if she'd come back in to join him.

Hope dies hard, floating in the ocean that you pile on top in which to drown it.


	19. Let's Go Another Round

Story: Another Round

Chapter Title: Let's Go Another Round

Summary: Rogan. Future fic. There's a new arrangement between the two.

AN: You guys have the patience of Job… And I don't, so either you've all given up on me, or you trust it to come eventually. (grins) I'm hoping it's the latter. This is the second to last chapter—so no one freak out when you get to the end. Remember the trust thing? Reviews appreciated… as always.

He'd known for quite some time that nothing in his life could be labeled as normal. Nothing fit into neat little packages or could be hid away in the back of closets, to be remembered only when cleaning years later to make more room for the new things you wanted to forget you have.

Things he'd tried so hard in the past to keep hidden were unearthed by those who wanted things to hang over his head; most often than not his father was the culprit for outing what he wanted to hold dear or protect or flat out repress. He stared now at the message on his phone, telling him that he had five unheard voice mails, all from the same number that always led him to hit the button that allowed him to ignore the displeased voice, telling him that he thought their understanding was clear and didn't include his being unreachable all weekend while he visited Nowheresville, CT, for a conjugal visit instead of being at the last stock holder's meeting.

Too many obligations had fallen by the wayside in the attempt of being a normal boyfriend; assuming normalcy included long-distance phone calls and a constant wondering as to when the relationship would shift one way or another. Phone sex and never apologizing. This new relationship resembled them—the aching in their voices as they pleased themselves, wishing it were the one so many miles away touching them instead. Total dissolution into pleasure under the guise of pretending that they could be something they've never been.

Normal.

"Mr. Huntzberger?" the terrified voice of his secretary came over his intercom. Only two things made Grace nervous. He'd laughed the first time that she came bolting into his office, unannounced and stark white in the face, telling him there was a spider on her desk. She hadn't laughed when he asked if it was the size of a Buick—so he moved out to kill it and make the area safe for her to once again regain efficient use of her time.

The only other thing that made her nervous spelled disaster for him—it heralded an afternoon of being bawled out and put into his place, rather than skipping out after approving layouts and taking a train out of the city for the perfect evening of aversion he'd planned. He'd be rooted in his delinquency, once again having to resign himself to the sound of her voice to take the place of her hands and mouth against and around him.

"Yes, Grace?"

"You have a visitor," she began as his office door was thrown open.

"Tell him to come in," he said in mocking of his father's abrupt entrance. "Hold my calls," he added for good measure.

"Yes, Sir," she chirped back, glad to avoid having to interrupt the proceedings from this point on.

"You've been turning your phone off," his father's angry accusation came out.

"No," he shook his head. "I've been screening my calls. There's a difference."

"This isn't a joke. Did you even listen to those messages?" Mitchum barked.

Logan sighed. "I would have gotten around to it," he began.

"There's no time for putting things off. Things are going to hell in Europe. I'm not sure how long it will take to stabilize, but my only concern is getting it started straight away. You should get in late tomorrow morning, so you'll sleep on the plane—you'll need to get straight into meetings, and be on your most convincing behavior. Everything is fine, everything is going as planned, those are the only two phrases I want coming out of your mouth, do you understand me?"

"I can't go to London tonight—I have plans, which you're about to make me late for."

"This isn't college, Logan. This is your responsibility."

"If it's this important, why don't you go?"

"If I go, then it looks like a bigger deal than we want them realizing it is. I go, and every single European backer pulls out," Mitchum shook his head. "This is the only way."

"If it's that big a deal, then why didn't it come to my attention sooner that a phone call in the last day and this very pleasant interruption of what was shaping up to be a fine afternoon?"

Mitchum didn't look amused by his son's attempts to make light of the situation. But then, his brand of humor had never been understandable to his son. Other people's misfortune never made Logan laugh. "I know what you've been up to. You think you've been hiding it, well, then you're a bigger fool than I realized."

"I'm not trying to hide anything. I'm in a relationship," he spoke over his father.

"You're sulking off to woo a woman that has the decency not to show her face in the City after what you two have been up to, all these years," his father had always been louder.

"You have no idea what has gone on here; you've never had any interest in my life, don't pretend to start now on my account."

Mitchum scoffed. "You think letting you live in a world of delusion is in some way supporting you? I've always been the one to pull your ass out of the fire, time and time again, don't forget that."

"I could never forget that—you always make sure I feel the burns before you 'rescue' me, don't you?"

Logan had never considered what it felt like to have high blood pressure, but as blood pounded in his ears and rushed down his torso, he didn't care if he burst a blood vessel as long as his father didn't leave this office thinking he'd been benevolent over the years.

"There are realities in life, Son. Like a woman that uses you to escape from her bad marriage will continue to use you until you have nothing left to give. She's doing you a favor, going away, giving you an out, but you insist on reaching for goals that aren't meant to be attained."

"So, what, I'm never supposed to be happy?" Logan shouted.

"Are you really happy with how things are turning out so far?" his father asked, his voice having falling down to a normal, nearly quiet, and respectful decibel.

Logan said nothing; admitting defeat to his father had never been an option. Failure was very different that aversion of obligations. He contemplated the angle his father was going for here.

"If I said do whatever you like, from now on, what would you do? If you can stand there, look me in the eyes and tell me that you'd leave New York and live with her—that she'd let you live with her—then by all means, go."

"You don't mean that."

"You're a grown man, Logan. I can nudge you in the direction that I feel is best for you, and yes, my company. I'd be a damned fool not to think of the welfare of my company—it's my livelihood, as well as yours might I add. But I can't force you to do anything. Not any longer. If you want to walk away from this, for her," he paused. "It's your decision. The leaves at nine this evening, should you choose to be on it."

Logan was dumbfounded as his father took his leave in a calm, collected manner. He felt as if Mitchum was now in sole possession of both emotions. He felt the back of his legs make contact with the edge of his mahogany desk—his latest addition to what was feeling like a permanent position at this paper. He normally was just starting to feel the flow of a place, get his bearings set and his tastes acclimated to, when his father yanked the rug out from under his feet and moved him ninety blocks or nine states to the west, letting him know who was really in charge.

But never had he said, 'should you choose to.'

"Mr. Huntzberger?"

The use of his father's name was taken for granted by his subconscious, even though it was normally him in this place that was addressed in that manner. He stared off into space until a hand touched his arm.

"Logan?"

His eyes drifted up to Grace's. She gave a soft smile. "You want me to arrange to have your bags packed?"

He nodded. "Please. And call Frank, I'm going to need a ride to Connecticut tonight."

"To your father's?"

"No. To Stars Hollow. I need to go as soon as possible."

Grace nodded and took her leave. He rubbed his temples, hating himself for wishing she could be easily transplanted to wherever life dumped him next. She would remain on in the New York satellite of the Huntzberger Corporation, assisting one of the many top level executives. He'd have to remember to send her something to show his appreciation. He'd ask Rory—she'd done her turn as an assistant more than her fair share. She'd know what would be appropriate.

He just hoped that she had answers to more questions that plagued him as well.

XXXX

She lived in a nice, second-floor walk-up, over what was, curiously enough, a collectible plate store. He'd seen the most extravagant in superfluous décor, entire homes that resembled museums in fact, but the draw of collectible plates baffled him. He was surprised when he heard the unmistakable, twisting, click of unlocking each and every time he knocked on her door—the need for a lock at all was laughable. Should anyone attempt a crime in this hamlet, the nearest neighbor would either call the cops before there was time to perpetrate the violation, or just simply stop and talk the would-be criminal to death, making them sorry they ever woke up that morning. And yet, she always locked her door behind her. He wondered what she was trying to protect.

"Hey," she leaned forward and kissed him, her movements easy and languid. She smiled and opened the door for him to enter. He stayed in her hallway, afraid that if he took one step further, there would be no going back. He'd been given options for the first time today, and he hated to lose the feeling of freedom so soon, even if it was accompanied by unbridled fear. Her hand ran over his forearm. "You okay?"

"I'm fine. I spoke with my father just before I left the office," he admitted.

"Oh," she cringed. "Me too. Though my dad was asking me how old a girl should be before she wears make-up. He couldn't get a hold of Mom, and evidently Gi-Gi has started leaving the house sans make-up and coming home plastered in it. I told him that it's normal—especially since her mother does work in the cosmetic industry."

"I didn't think she had contact with her mother," he narrowed his eyes.

"It's a nature versus nurture debate, please, don't make me go back into that long spiel. I basically had to confuse Dad until he felt that it wasn't his fault that his daughter was coming home looking like a pre-op tranny every afternoon," she giggled. "But he did promise to send pictures for full mocking and Christmas card opportunities."

Logan smiled, feeling himself get sucked into her world. A surge of warmth flowed over him—this was what he wanted. This was exactly whom he wanted to come home to. He took a step into her apartment and guided his hands around hers. She looked up at him in curiosity. "Don't worry, I've gotten most of my next article finished, in between pep talks."

"I'm not here because of your article," he lowered his head, his eyes still on hers.

She smiled that knowing smile. "If you distract me, I might never finish it," she teased, her body already easing up against his in a long arch. He held their hands down, locking both their elbows out, causing her to step back slightly.

"I'm moving to London," he blurted out.

Her smiled flickered out like the last dying embers of an eternal flame.

"How am I supposed to react to that?"

He nodded, accepting her hesitation. Things between them, while awe-inspiring, hadn't been the kind of spoken promises of undying adoration. It was his lips that made his promises, but they spoke only in motion against her skin. His hands held her securely against him, where he wanted her to be. He knew words made her skittish—there was nothing more concrete to her than words. They were her stock and trade, and she was very careful with her own and those she allowed spoken to her.

"I was hoping you'd agree to move this cat and mouse game across the pond," the edge of his lips curled up as he spoke, referring to how he continued to pursue her as she had so many years after him. He'd put in his time, stealing moments when he could no longer deny his need for her, after everything that had happened. He needed to know that she was willing to follow him, for good this time.

"You want me to hop a trans-Atlantic flight every time I want to see you?"

She had a right to sound so put off, assuming he wasn't asking her a question quite of the magnitude that he truly was. She wasn't quite catching the level of seriousness he was offering up.

"You say that like you wouldn't have the option of flying Huntzberger Air every time, at your leisure."

"Why London? Why now?" she demanded.

He shrugged. "Business is business. London is hot right now, and it's something I have to do."

"It's just, it's horrible timing. It's hard enough for us to find time to bridge the gap between New York and Connecticut, but add in a whole other time zone and entire days committed to travel," she shook her head.

"I agree. Which is why I'm asking you to move to London. With me."

Looking at her, he realized there really was no taking back words. Just like there was nothing truer than first responses.

"I can't move to London!"

"Why not?"

"I have a lease, and a job, and a life! All of it, not in London."

"In London, you wouldn't need a lease, you could easily get a job—you have excellent references, trust me, and I'm willing to provide everything you need in life. I want you with me."

Her mouth dropped open. "I need---time, to think," she ran her hands through her hair. "When would you have to leave?"

"Tonight. Come on, it's now or never, Ace."

Her eyes closed. "I'm sorry. I can't make a decision this big in two seconds. I can't. I was just starting to feel good about everything, starting to feel like I was on my own, making my own life," she said, her tone melancholy and laced with hope. "I liked how things were going."

"You don't want to be with me," he nodded, dropping her hands.

"No, I do, God, I do, more than anything," she pleaded for him to understand. "But if I drop everything now, so soon, Logan—I'll be no better off than I was when I was with Theo. I wouldn't be living my life—I'd be tagging along for yours."

He winced at her words; knowing it was true despite his desire to hold her tight and tell her that with him it'd be different. But no words he knew could show her that, if his actions hadn't already.

"I should go," his voice cracked, uncharacteristically. "I have a nine o'clock flight."

"You have time," she soothed. "Stay, have dinner," she offered.

"I'm not hungry. I only came here," he shook his head with a sigh, for the first time realizing it was one of defeat. "For you."

"Then have me," she said, stepping close yet again, reaching out and placing his hands on her torso. His right hand rested over her left breast, his left feeling the hard rise and fall of her ribcage just under above her waist.

"Rory," he allowed her proximity, too close to shut out the sweet smell of her shampoo and the give of her skin against his hands. He was too close not to taste her lips, which adhered to his each time he tried to pry himself away, her body's inability to let him go. She was lingering, more than normal, and so he gave himself the same allowances. He traced her body before filling in the gaps, wanting to remember the feel of his body against every last inch of her.

And maybe he wanted to make her sorry in the process. Or maybe he just wanted to leave his mark under her skin, where he could be sure she'd never be able to rid herself of him. If all she would allow him to take with him to London was a memory of her, he was going to make sure it was the most vivid damn memory that he could muster.

Her eyes were closed when he leaned back down to kiss her forehead. His clothes hung on him as if they belonged to someone else; surely he wasn't the same person that had entered this very apartment hours ago. She'd changed him; his very chemical composition was different. He pressed his lips to her skin, almost praying that she really was asleep. When she woke, she'd be the woman she wanted to be.

And he'd be a million miles away.


	20. I Will Follow You Down And Out

Story: Another Round

Chapter Title: I Will Follow You Down And Out

Summary: Rogan. Future fic. There's a new arrangement between the two.

Final AN: Yep, this is it… ran out of lyrics. Thank you to everyone who has read, enjoyed, reviewed.

Rain pelted the roof above him softly. It was constant and steady here, taking its time and moving gently over the land, leaving as gradually as it came; unlike the glorious thunderstorms that overtook New England. Lightening storms would descend like a jealous lover, taking out its rage unexpectedly and ferociously, leaving behind only wreckage and those cowering in its wake.

The differences in his life weren't only evident in the rain; just amplified by them. He lay in his bed at night, twisting himself up in his sheets, pulling the pillows over his head, anything to bring about sleep sooner. For it was in his dreams that the most notable exception took place.

His memories of her had become distorted, as if he were basing his dreams on an artist's rendition of her. The edges of her body, practice telling him how smooth and solid, like porcelain silk, she was, now appeared jagged and shaded—smudged in attempt to recreate light refracting off of her pale complexion.

Buried in a sea of white linen, he transformed himself into a medium that set about to smooth away these ethereal imperfections. His hands canvassed her hips, her legs, her neck, seeking the relief of pressure, her skin against his, but finding only that her body blended into the atmosphere around them, as if he were trying to force contact with a cloud. Her weight never collided with his—he thrashed about in his sheets as he fought for friction, found no solace, and woke up in a cold sweat. With the rain not beating down hard enough on the roof to have been the culprit that awoke him.

He'd been in England two months—long enough to realize she wasn't coming, but not long enough to stop wishing she might still show up in more than his dreams. He cycled through the stages of loss; denial that all that they'd been through had been, in the end, for nothing; wondering if it were just that he were more able to let her go, or if she'd let him go long before he set foot on that plane. He went through rage, at himself for leaving, at her for letting him go. Bargaining came in the form of telling himself that if he dreamed of her one more time he'd catch the next flight home—but all it did was spur him into depression, which brought about more rage at the situation.

Acceptance eluded him.

The change of scenery—nay, the change of culture had been his only saving grace. It was harder to fall into habits—old or new, bad or good, in this time of relearning customs, both business and social. None of his co-workers here feared him; in fact they took a rather mentor-like role in his training, waiting for him to prove himself, but managing to not hope to see him fail at the same time. After work, it was customary to grab a pint at the local pub before retiring home to loved ones, and the fact that he had none to return to wasn't something into which anyone inquired or he brought up. Nothing here was as it had been in the place he'd considered home.

Not to say he'd been living a solitary existence. He'd made friends from nearly every country in this world up to this point, mostly from his formative years, all of whom looked to him for a good time when they passed through, and London was easier for most of them to find themselves than New York. Those that had swept in and out of his life had ranged from the best of friends that were at the ready to pick him up out of this sorry state that his social life had become (scolded on end by an Australian with an affinity for Irish beer and women) to husbands of ex-lovers with the adage to show the chaps a good time—just not to go crazy. Crazy always came with an inflection.

He knew all about crazy. There were so many kinds, but in all honesty the kind they'd once enjoyed with him and now feared could threaten the nice little lives they'd settled themselves into wasn't even possible anymore. He'd tried—the desire to give his mind over to feel only the sensations that external stimuli could provide his body with was great, but his mind was so strong, so focused, so lonely…. Regardless of the company he kept, he found himself alone in the middle of the night, seeing only her, dreading the relief that morning light would bring.

This morning he pushed the top sheet half down his chest quickly, allowing him the room to sit up. His other hand reached for the glass of water he kept by his bedside; in college to stave off hangovers, but proving now to replenish water lost in the midst of his nightly battles with his bedding. He closed his eyes, as she fell away and his daily schedule raced to the foreground of his mind. His molars ground into one another, dull sensations urging him to stop. His father had taken the redeye over the pond to check up on his overseas interests—namely making sure he wasn't sullying the good Huntzberger name. The white gloves would come out and even the most approving of his supervisors would be hard pressed to see how Logan was making a contribution by the time Mitchum's finesse with wordplay had been extorted. It would be up to him to prove the hard work and fulfillment he'd been reaping from his time here.

It was going to be a long day, much of which would be spent wishing he could see his father answer to someone that disapproved of him.

Just before leaving his flat, he slipped on a trench coat—a necessity of London weather. His own father's affinity for them no longer seemed eccentric to him—just another by-product of where life had taken him. He could begin to see the checkmarks he could already tick off as he followed in his father's footsteps—albeit at times at gunpoint it felt like.

Misspent youth.

Check.

Affinity for scotch.

Check.

Trench coats.

Check.

Dark circles under the eyes.

Check.

He stopped in a flow of people on their way to the tube, creating a ripple that had to sidestep him. His own dark circles had developed from fitful nights filled with want of what he just couldn't hold onto. He'd always assumed that his father's dark circles had formed in worry for his company. But now… he doubted. There were years that went unexplained in his father's history—things his mother spoke nothing of, things his grandfather seemed too proud to discuss, things his father was unwilling to share. Years that had been spent doing something that this award-winning journalist and business man felt so passionate about. Research? Protesting? Lobbying? Acting? Something in his gut told him none of these fit the man he knew so little about, despite his own destiny of becoming him.

As the rain transitioned swiftly from a fine mist to a noticeable douse, he fell back in step with the hurried masses, letting the tide of people sweep him toward the desire to find out who exactly he was becoming.

--&--

He could hear his father speaking of projections and net loss as he stepped off the elevator. The man had a booming voice, at the ready to take command of a conversation whether the other person had planned it that way or not.

He was relaxed, his own coat having been hung up long enough to shirk its dampness and for his morning coffee to nearly be in need of a refill. His back was to his approaching son, but he stiffened as he realized the attention he'd garnered had shifted as his colleagues were now paying heed to Logan.

"Ah, Logan, what exactly are the numbers for the last three fiscal years in your department?" Mitchum turned, keeping the conversation going in lieu of a proper greeting—yet he couldn't be faulted for not acknowledging him.

"Good to see you, too, Dad, what's it been, three fiscal months?" Logan unwound his bag from across his torso to lean it on his desk while he went to work on the buttons on his coat.

Mitchum held up his hand and shook his head. "We'll continue this later," he addressed the other men. "How does brunch sound?" he squinted toward his son.

"I have work to do," he pursed his lips as he spoke slowly, mainly out of confusion.

"A shared meal with the boss? Last time I checked, it was allowed," Mitchum made his attempt at a joke.

"Does that mean you've been able to write off every single meal our family has ever shared? How convenient to have that kind of leniency in your life."

"Is that a no?"

"That depends. I'd like to speak to my father, not the CEO. Who's gonna be sitting across from me?"

Mitchum drew his hand over his face, but looked his son directly in the eyes. "Son," he began, "shall we get some coffee?"

Logan nodded and picked up his bag to sling it back over his broad torso. "After you."

--&--

He took his coffee black. He preferred it laced with sugar and milk, but the bitterness of the unsweetened remains as he ran his tongue over his lips in aftertaste put him back in time when it was her lips he was mapping out.

His father was watching the displeasure of his taste buds as the liquid washed over them as he spooned in three lumps of sugar to his own cup. "No good?"

"It's fine," he managed.

Mitchum nodded, mollified. "So, you say you wanted to talk?"

Logan took another sip that he had no intention of enjoying in the moment. "After you graduated from Yale," he took a deep breath before meeting his father's eyes. "You didn't go directly to work for Grandpa."

It wasn't a question, but Mitchum took it as one. "That's correct."

"What were you doing?"

"What is this about?"

Logan shrugged. "I need to know."

"I was taking some time off."

His eyes narrowed. "What does that mean? Were you in some treatment facility in Antarctica or something?"

Mitchum sighed. "I was exploring my options."

"Please, Dad, just give me the details."

"You really want to know?" his voice wasn't filled with a lack of willingness, rather a surprise at the desire to hear it.

"I need to know."

He nodded, taking another drink before continuing. "I was traveling. I put everything I thought I'd need into a backpack and got into my car. I didn't get on one interstate, and I saw every single last part of the United States—and to be honest a lot of Mexico and Canada."

"Grandpa was fine with you just getting in your car and going off like that?"

"I never said that," Mitchum brought his cup up to his lips, but did not drink.

"You didn't tell him?"

"No, I told him. We nearly brought the house to the foundation several times. He said he'd cut me off, write me out of the will for being an ungrateful, lazy, pathetic excuse for a son," he remembered.

"Sounds like you were taking notes," he chided. "So, you left anyway?"

"I left anyway. Right after he told me that I was making the biggest mistake of my life."

Logan nodded. Of all the things his father had ever said to him, that wasn't in the mix. "And was it?"

Mitchum considered this, as if he never had before. "No."

"So," he sat back, taking in the information. "You traveled alone?"

Now he filled his mouth to elongate his response time. "No."

"Mom went with you?" he assumed, though questioningly. His father had married his father shortly after reappearing on the radar created by his bylines.

"Can you imagine your mother sleeping in a car? Eating unheated beans out of a can?"

"Buddies, then?" he pressed, seeing how he and his best friends might have decided upon a similar journey—though he knew that two years would be too much time spent among friends, seeing their faces every moment of every day. There was just one person he could imagine not tiring of after constant immersion, day after day, week after week.

His father simply shook his head and waved the waiter away when he came to check on the table.

"Who was she?"

Mitchum smiled. "A classmate of mine, initially, at Yale. We were in an Ethics seminar together, and, as I tended to do, I was arguing some point counter her—to propagate the discussion, make things interesting, and she just … lost it on me. I think I'd made some comment about the country's welfare system being used as a crutch, and she flew off the handle with very well researched statistics about how many deserving, hardworking people would be left without aide if not for government programs, and I remember very distinctly, she ended her tirade with calling me a elitist pig with a silver spoon permanently lodged in an area that turned my professor's skin a nasty shade of mauve," he chuckled.

"Wow. And you were left alone in a car with this person and survived?"

"This was a year prior to that," he let on. "That first day, I watched as she gathered her books, her arms shaking with frustration and anger. I let her pass out of the class, but stepped up to her as she was catching her breath in the corridor. I asked her if I could use some of my bourgeois wealth to buy her a cup of coffee."

"You did not," he winced, almost able to feel the sting of her certain rejection.

"I did. And, she declined. I asked her out every week, for the next month after class. Finally she told me she was going to transfer to Harvard to bypass my misplaced desire to conquer everything in my line of vision."

_Butt-faced miscreant_, he could see the frustration on her face as the voice rang out in the depths of his mind.

"She accepted finally," he said with authority.

Mitchum smiled softly. "She did. She agreed to meet me at this dive on the other end of New Haven. I joked about her not wanting to be seen with me, but when I got there and sat down, I was more than taken back when she came up to me in a half apron and an order pad."

Logan never taken much interest in his father's stories, but now he sat enraptured. This was the first time he believed he saw his father without the shield of ego held between them.

"She thought she had made her point. I asked her if she was at least planning on taking her break with me. She had her hair up off her neck, which she never did in class, and I told her how it complimented her. She went on about not wanting pity, but all I could do was try to make her see that I liked the contrast of her in my life. And, after another month of my becoming a regular in her bar, in her section, she agreed to go on a real date with me."

His father's tenacity was a family trait older than the ages, destined to outlast the family fortune. "You were serious about her?"

He simply met his eyes.

"Did you… I mean, what happened?"

"I brought her home, after weeks of assuring her that it would go smoothly. Your grandfather was less than accommodating, though your grandmother, God rest her soul, tried to rein him in. He left the table when she got tired of his comments and asked how he slept at night knowing that his company was single-handedly destroying significant portions of rainforests every year so he could own a home that could house entire villages."

"I would pay money to have seen that," Logan laughed.

"She was an environmental studies major," he smiled. "She was into all of that long before law mandated recycling, she marched, she … she cared about things I had always taken for granted."

"We give a large sum to Greenpeace," Logan said out loud, realizing why for the first time. He'd always assumed it was just another way for his father to appear socially conscious, but now it was colored.

"We do other things as well," he said quietly. "Anyhow. She would join me for dinners with Mother, but never when Dad was around. When I went to graduate, Dad gave me my work orders, and she told me her plans to see the country. I told Dad that I was going and left."

"You spent two years living with her in a car," Logan frowned.

"Car, tent, some nights just under open stars in open meadows, some colder nights in shelters," he remembered.

"What happened?"

"I asked her to marry me. She told me she didn't want to become a part of my family—she held the belief that I would go back, that I was on borrowed time. I didn't want to believe her, but now," he sighed. "Anyhow. I called home near the two year mark, to speak with my mother as I did from time to time. It had been a few months, and the maid answered. She told me that your grandmother was in the hospital, very sick, and that I should come."

"So you came back."

"We came back. She held my hand the entire trip back—I don't even remember stopping the whole way. We'd been in Florida, headed toward the Keys for the winter. She kissed me, told me to go in, she'd park the car. I found a letter in the glove box an hour later when I came to bring her up. She was gone."

"She just left?"

"She said I needed my family now, and a few other things, but basically that if I wasn't there at that time, I'd regret it. That eventually I'd resent her, that in time I'd see that certain things didn't matter, and some things that I thought I could suppress would never die."

"Dad," he began, but found he had no words to comfort or suffice.

"She was right, about some things. So very wrong about others. Mother died a week later. I went to work two weeks later. I met your mother a few months after. It was all very fast—we found out about your sister and married."

He blinked. He and Honor had always wondered, in a joking form, if their parents had only married because of a pink stick, but to see his father admit it….

"You didn't love Mom?"

Mitchum's eyes snapped up. "I do love your mother," he corrected.

"Not like this other woman."

"Love isn't always so cut and dry; there is something to be said for someone who is loyal and stays by your side in good times and bad--and you will learn that when people pull away from you, it's for a reason. If they want to go, they're going to leave, and you have to make peace and go on with your life," he said with a lilt of advice.

"Dad."

"I had said I needed to speak to you as well," he took a deep breath. "I had a visitor not too long ago, technically one of your employees, hired by you, came to me to be released from her contract, but didn't want to go through you."

His stomach bottomed out, like he was a passenger in a fast-moving car going over hills that hadn't been anticipated. He wanted to slow down, take control, feel like the connections that he himself, as well as his father, had made could unravel and land him in another life. When he looked up into his father's eyes, he felt only tighter constrictions.

"I'm sorry."

"You let her out?"

"She was expendable," he said gently. "There are other writers, and it's unwise to force someone to stick to a contract when they've left mentally."

"She's not expendable," the words hurt coming out.

"Let her go," his father soothed. "The most we can hope for in this life is to honor the people that love us—if their desires are to be with us or not. Let her go," he repeated.

Logan nodded, willing the hot stinging of his eyes to limit themselves to discomfort.

"I am sorry. You have to know, all these years, I've done what I thought was best for you. I did in part what my father did for me, as I've seen that he had my best interests as well. It's hard to see that sometimes, I know," he sighed.

"It gets easier with time," it was more of a question than a statement. Pain seeped now through every last part of his body.

"It's okay to keep things close that shape you. Just allow new things to come in and continue to shape you. If I met her again now, I can't say that we'd recognize each other. So much has happened in my life, and I'm sure hers. But nothing can take away that time when we belonged to each other. No one can take that from you, either, if you truly belonged to each other."

He could barely nod. No time like the present to begin to keep it close. "Are you in town long?"

"Just today. Your mother has some function she's insisted I return home for tomorrow. It's either cancer or children. Maybe it's a combination of the two," he frowned.

"I do like it here. I was hoping that you'd agree that I should stay on a bit longer?"

"The job's yours as long as you want it, it always has been," he smiled as if they shared as secret. He knew it was so much more than that.

--&--

Chocolate brown spilled across milky beige, dark blue scattered across hardwood. She had made herself at home on his couch, her shoes lost on her small trek to comfort. Her appropriately long business skirt, pencil cut to fall past her knees, was now scrunched up to the point of indecency as she pulled her long legs up to inspect her nail polish on one foot. He hung in the door frame, ever content in his vigilance, enjoying the way in which he managed to keep her close.

He'd prepared himself for such an image, having read up on lucid dreams—wanting nothing more than to extract every last ounce out of what he had left, while he had it with her. He'd achieved the state of realizing he was dreaming, and maintaining the control while his brain played out its desires.

She was his greatest desire. He wondered if that would ever change.

"So, you came?" he asked, his words floating in the air over to her, causing her to turn her head and smile.

"I hoped you wouldn't mind," she smiled easily.

"You're always a welcome distraction."

He wasn't ready for the disappointment of touching her, fearing that would be what would push him out into the grips of reality, an inordinate amount of tossing and turning necessary to recapture her. He wondered if she was as exhausted as he was when he woke of a morning.

"I'm a distraction?"

"You used to be. Now I'd say you're more of a focal point."

Her eyes studied his body. "It's easier to focus when you're closer."

"Is our time so short?"

"We have as long as you choose," she sucked her breath in as she spoke, a near hiccup as she caught her bottom lip between her teeth. Her head lolled back against the cushion, her long, dark hair cascading up and over. Knowing the feeling of engulfment as his fingers might sink into those feather-soft curls had to be enough. He stepped closer now, but only to come around and view her from the front.

"Why do you come like this?" he asked, in near agony from want to touch her.

"Don't you think I tried to stay away?" she frowned, reaching out for him, only to have him recoil in trepidation. "Do you want me to go?"

"I'm just trying to do what's best," he closed his eyes. "You've told me a million times, in so many different ways that you can't be with me."

"And yet, somehow I'm always right here," she pointed out.

A barrage of memories flooded him—what she had been trying to say to him all along. Getting him in her life by trying to play by his rules, breaking her own. Pretending each time was their last, only to come back for more again and again, in the face of every single life change each endured. Paying her penance to be with him, any price paid, nothing too much for their intermittent clashing. Nights filled with cyclical agony and relief, passing all too quickly, yet etched in time forever. Her ability to find him without any direction whatsoever, using only her desire to track him. Showing up every night in his dreams. Allowing him to cut her free of what she felt were deserved shackles. His arms serving as her sole source of comfort and her greatest source of joy. How she'd never put him in a position to have to choose. She had been consistent in one message all this time, no matter how hard she'd fought it. She'd been trying to prove something to herself, and from the look in her eyes, she finally had.

"The funny thing about love," he swallowed hard at her words, sensing her nearness as she'd stood up and stepped closer to him. He could always feel the stirrings of her as she drew near—it would only make the loss of contact harder to bear. "You never know where it's going to lead you."

"I've always known where it was leading me."

"Forgive me."

It was an answered question. He was ready to touch her now, ready even for the bittersweet release of waking up, being alone—because the vivid intensity of this particular dream was ripping him to shreds. So much for taking control, saying goodbye. Letting go.

"Always," he murmured, his arms moving like weights had been attached to each hand, slowing his pace like electronic equipment were in charge of his movements. It was she who wasn't hesitant this time, her who initiated contact by a matter of milliseconds.

The rain was drowned out by the pounding of their hearts. She tasted of salt and coffee and lust. He groaned at the weight of her hips anchoring him down. She whispered his name as her nails dug into his taut flesh, unable to finish syllables as he found friction from within her.

And it felt so real, that he didn't care if he had dreamed it all.


End file.
